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®l|f  Art  of  Artittg 


WotkB  bjj  K  J. 

HHarkag 

The 

Art    of   Acting 

Voca 

Gymnastics 

/  The 

Emotional      Analysis 

of     Shakespeare's 

Dramatic     Characters                             | 

(In   Preparation) 

®If ^  Art  0f  Arttng 


«8 

3.  3.  Harkag 


lEmbraring 

®I|0  AttalgatB  0f  iExpr^a0t0tt 
iramattr  Sltt^ratur^ 


3F.  J.  jHarkag 
23  MttX  44ti}  i^trert 

laia 


COPYRIGHT.  191 3 
BY  F.  F.  MACKAY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


(HcnttntB 


Portrait  of  the  Author 4 

Dedication 9 

Introduction .  11 

Edwin    Booth's   Letter  to   the    Author    .       .  14 

What    is    Acting  ?     Is  it  an   Art  ?       .       .       .  25 

The   Passion 63 

^Emotions 67 

Definitions   of  the   Technique   of   Speech      .  83 

Z^xpression 94 

Utterance          96 

Voice 104 

Force 119 

Stress 137 

Pitch   and    Inflection 156 

Time 173 

Gesture   and    Pose 189 

^Laughter 215 

^RYING     AND     WeEPING 227 

.Personal   Magnetism 240 

Drama 246 

The  Dramatic    Director 261 

Make-Up 278 

Analysis   of   the    Dramatic    Composition          .  289 


331044 


T 


O    my   sons— Charles,   William,    and 
Edward — I  dedicate  this  book. 


My  sons,  in  this  volume  you  will  find  re- 
corded my  observations  resulting  from  fifty-  ^ 
five  years  of  study  and  practice  in  the  Art 
of  Acting  and  Teaching, 

The  matter  herein  contained  is  the  only 
legacy  I  am  able  to  leave  to  you;  but  I  have 
a  hope,  almost  a  belief,  that  you,  starting 
upon  a  higher  plane  of  general  intelligence, 
and  with  a  clearer  conception  of  art,  may 
achieve  a  richer  harvest  of  those  "rascal 
counters''  by  which  the  world  still  estimates 
the  value  of  the  man.  But  while  struggling 
for  existence,  love  and  develop  art.  The  ap- 
probation won  by  the  exposition  of  art  is 
always  honest;  and  the  friendship  gained  by 
art  is  always  true.  The  true  artist  finds  in 
his  work  a  satisfying  pleasure  which  the 
mere  money  hunter  never  experiences.  The 
doing  as  well  as  the  contemplation  of  the  fine 
arts,  always  begets  a  restful  condition  of  the 
mind  that  may  not  improperly  be  called  hap- 
piness.  And,  after  all,  what  is  life  without 
its  resting  places — those  oases  in  the  arid 


t  Art  0f  Arttns 


plains  of  strife — those  moments  when  the 
mind  may  cease  perceptive  work  and  reflect. 

The  preciseness  of  mathematical  calcu- 
lation does  not  seem  to  harmonize  with  the 
qualities  of  mind  that  make  the  most  suc- 
cessful developments  of  the  fine  arts,  yet  I 
would  respectfully  suggest  that  a  knowledge 
of  arithmetic,  sufficient  to  reckon  the  sum  of 
one's  daily  dependence,  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  the  preservation  of  personal  liberty 
and  the  dignity  of  freedom.  I  would  there- 
fore advise  you  to  bring  your  learning  in 
mathematics  to  bear,  occasionally,  in  ascer- 
taining the  value  of  your  art,  that  you  may 
not  be  merely  the  servants  of  buyers  and 
sellers.  Dealers  in  art  will  never  rate  you 
higher  than  the  value  you  place  upon  your- 
selves. 

Finally,  read,  observe,  and  think  for  your- 
selves. 

Trusting  that  you  will  find  pleasure  and 
profit  in  correcting  the  errors  and  promul- 
gating the  truths  of  this  book;  wishing  you 
each  and  all  greater  success  than  has  fallen 
to  my  lot;  and  with  the  assurance  that  none 
is  less  happy  and  some  are  happier  because 
I  have  lived,  I  am 

Your  affectionate  father, 

F.  F.  MAC  KAY. 


SnttBhtxttixin 

THE  exponent  of  Supreme  Power  and  Om- 
niscience is  creation.  The  exponent  of  all 
human  knowledge  and  power  is  Art. 

The  greatest  pleasure  that  the  mind  can  know 
comes  from  its  recognition  of  Nature's  forces — 
the  solution  of  her  secrets,  and  a  knowledge  of 
her  ways. 

The  scientific  mind  revels  in  the  study  of  Na- 
ture, and  the  intellectual  man  listens  with  delight 
to  an  exposition  of  her  mysteries.  The  greatest 
mystery  in  Nature  is  the  ignorance  of  man. 

We  know  nothing  positively;  but  even  com- 
parative knowledge  makes  a  good  foundation 
from  which  imagination  may  project  her  flights. 
Facts  lead  us  to  the  boundaries  of  creation,  where 
fancy  flies  into  unlimited  space,  with  each  mo- 
ment of  progress  growing  and  strengthening  in 
the  hope  that,  from  the  regions  of  the  unknown, 

11 


UUft  Art  0f  Arttng 

imagination  may  bring  a  true  theory  of  that 
Power  that  bade  all  things  that  are,  to  be. 

Men  who  love  Nature  find  pleasure  in  imitat- 
ing her  works. 

The  poet  seeks  to  describe  in  words  the  impres- 
sions that  Nature  makes  upon  his  mind;  the  mu- 
sician strives  to  harmonize  the  sounds  that  fall 
upon  his  ear,  from  the  bird  note  to  the  deep  toned 
thunder ;  while  the  painter,  with  lines  and  colors, 
tells  the  story  that  Nature  reads  to  him  through 
all  her  forms  by  light  and  shadow  tinged. 

The  dramatist  and  the  actor  retell  with  words, 
with  voice,  with  pose  and  gesture,  the  passion  and 
the  emotions  of  the  mind.  The  basic  principle 
of  all  mental  expression  by  physical  action  is  the 
mimetic  power. 

All  men  are  not  born  great ;  nor  do  all  men  in- 
herit mimetic  power  in  equal  degrees. 

The  object  of  this  work  is  to  present  a  method 
by  which  the  art  of  acting  may  be  acquired 
through  study,  by  those  who  have  the  inherent 
fitness  for  the  work  of  illustrating  the  dramatis 
personae  of  the  dramatist. 

12 


Sntx  ixhnttxnn 

This  is  a  subject  that  I  think  ought  to  engage 
the  attention  of  all  lovers  of  art ;  and,  if  I  fail  to 
awaken  sympathy  and  to  arouse  interest  in  the 
matter,  let  the  failure  be  attributed  to  the  inabil- 
ity of  the  writer,  rather  than  to  the  absence  of 
worthiness  in  the  Art  of  Acting. 


13 


®lj^  Art  0f  Arttng 

THAT  the  dramatic  art  takes  a  high  antiquity 
has  been  shown  by  the  Oriental  scholar, 
Horace  Hayman  Wilson,  who  in  1828  published 
in  London  several  Indian  dramas  which  he  had 
translated  from  the  Sanscrit,  dating  some  five 
hundred  years  before  Thespis,  who  is  said  to 
have  been  a  dramatic  writer  and  actor,  nearly  six 
hundred  years  before  the  establishment  of  the 
Christian  Church.  If  age  may  bring  respect, 
then  certainly  the  art  of  acting  ought  to  rank 
among  the  honorable  callings. 

But  acting  has  something  more  than  age  to 
recommend  it  to  our  favorable  consideration.  It 
has  been  regarded  as  an  exponent  of  great  men- 
tal culture  among  all  enlightened  nations.  Act- 
ing is  worthy  of  encouragement,  because  it  is 
to-day  our  most  intellectual  public  entertainment, 
and  because  it  is  a  powerful  factor  in  the  highest 

17 


^^^ 


®I}^  Art  0f  Arttng 

and  best  civilizing  influences  of  the  world. 
Acting  is  worthy  of  consideration  because  it 
strengthens,  develops,  and  beautifies  mentally  all 
who  study  it  as  an  art. 

Painting  and  Sculpture  have  always  been  the 
protegees  of  refinement ;  and  though,  unlike  them, 
acting  cannot  leave  a  visible,  tangible  record,  yet 
in  its  exhibition  it  has  the  power  to  win  and  hold 
more  general  attention  and  sympathy  than  either 
of  them. 

The  painter  and  the  sculptor  may  present  the 
linear  poses  of  emotions,  but  the  actor  re-presents 
v  the  emotions  themselves.  He  stands  their  em- 
bodiment. He  not  only  arouses  the  passion,  but 
he  begets  motion  in  the  sympathies  he  awakens, 
and  compels  an  immediate  demonstration  for  or 
against  the  re-presentation. 

That  the  art  of  acting  has  not  within  it  the 
power  of  self-preservation  is  a  loss,  but  not  a 
fault  nor  blemish  in  the  art.  It  is  fleeting  as  a 
breath.  A  pose  of  the  body,  a  tone  of  the  voice, 
a  glance  of  the  eye,  a  quiver  of  the  lip,  and  it  is 
gone;  but  in  its  passage  it  touches  the  passion 

18 


©Ifj?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

and  moves  every  sensation  from  joy  to  despair; 
and,  more  than  any  other  art,  it  makes  man  for- 
get his  selfishness  to  laugh  or  weep  with  the  joys 
or  sorrows  of  his  fellow-men. 
Shakespeare  says: 

"Reputation  is  an  idle  and  most  false  impo-  \ 
sition,  oft  got  without  merit  and  lost  without  I 
deserving." 

Perhaps  to  no  class  of  people  is  the  truth  of 
this  quotation  more  entirely  applicable,  than  to 
dramatic  artists. 

It  often  happens  that  actors,  from  the  repre- 
sentation of  characters  which  have  fine  situations 
in  a  play,  due  entirely  to  the  constructive  ability 
of  the  author,  are  accredited  with  genius  which 
they  do  not  possess ;  and  while  people  in  the  walks 
of  private  life  may  pass  through  the  entire  round 
of  dissipation  without  achieving  notoriety,  be- 
yond their  own  immediate  neighborhood,  dra- 
matic artists  are,  from  the  publicity  of  their  call- 
ing, liable  to  the  broadest  and  severest  censure 
for  the  slightest  declensions  in  morals,  or  lapse 
in  general  deportment. 

19 


>*  : 


A 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttng 

But  if  the  moral  status  of  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession is  sometimes  unjustly  criticized  through 
the  ignorance  and  prejudice  of  those  who  judge 
without  comparison  and  pronounce  without 
thought,  so  too  is  unstinted  approbation  often 
bestowed  upon  the  merest  pretense  to  art;  and 
the  readiness  with  which  actors  frequently  ap- 
propriate to  themselves  the  honors  which  belong 
to  the  author,  the  scenic  artist,  the  machinist,  the 
property-maker,  and  the  calcium-light  man  espe- 
cially, is  only  equalled  by  the  persistent  liberality 
of  auditors  who,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment, 
are  ready  to  bestow  fame  and  favor  upon  the  rep- 
resentative actor,  quite  unmindful  of  the  author 
and  these  auxiliaries. 

Other  things  being  equal,  better  dramatic  char- 
acters make  better  actors,  in  the  estimation  of 
the  general  public,  and  even  professional  critics 
often  fall  into  the  error  of  mistaking  for  the 
actor's  art  those  effects  which  properly  belong 
to  the  dramatist.  In  proof  of  this  last  proposi- 
tion, it  may  be  asserted  without  fear  of  contra- 
diction— that  no  actor,  whatever  his  general  in- 

20 


®If^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

telligence,  has  ever  succeeded  in  making  a  great 
reputation  by  the  impersonation  of  inferior  char- 
acters; and  it  has  often  occurred  that  a  novice 
quite  unknown  to  fame,  has  achieved  distinction 
in  a  single  evening  through  some  accident  which 
forced  the  manager  to  entrust  the  struggHng 
aspirant  with  the  "leading  role."  There  may  be 
half  a  dozen  Forrests,  Davenports,  and  Booths  on 
the  stage  during  the  evening  performance,  while 
there  can  be  but  one  Hamlet,  one  Lear,  or 
one  Macbeth,  as  the  play  may  be  for  the  occa- 
sion. All  actors  may  be  artists,  but  all  cannot 
hope  to  win  distinction  in  the  same  play,  at  the 
same  time ;  for  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  author 
to  place  all  his  dramatis  personae  in  an  equally 
favorable  light. 

There  must  be  shadows  in  every  picture  to 
strengthen  the  lights  and  produce  a  proper  effect ; 
and  it  generally  occurs  in  the  dramatic  pictures 
presented  on  the  stage,  that  the  shadows  which 
require  the  most  careful  handling  and  put  the 
ability  of  the  artist  to  the  severest  test,  produce, 
after  all,  only  discouraging  results  to  the  actor; 

21 


SIIi^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

for  the  general  audience  bestow  their  favors  upon 
the  successful  hero  or  virtuous  heroine,  not  be- 
cause they  are  represented  by  the  superior  artists, 
but  because  they  are  the  agreeable  "high  lights" 
of  the  play;  while  the  most  artistic  efforts  of  the 
villain,  unless  illumined  with  the  glamour  of  a 
great  name,  are  lost  in  the  "shadow"  with  which 
the  author  has  surrounded  him.  A  good  looking 
"juvenile  man"  in  a  stock  company  would  be 
"called  out"  for  his  impersonation  of  Charles 
Surface  in  the  comedy  of  "School  for  Scandal," 
while  the  most  artistic  efforts  of  an  equally  good 
actor  in  the  character  of  Joseph  Surface  would, 
with  most  audiences,  win  for  him  the  reputation 
of  being  a  "mean  sort  of  a  fellow  anyway." 

This  effect  comes  from  the  auditor's  being 
more  interested  in  the  story  or  plot  of  the  play 
than  in  the  art  of  acting.  Indeed  there  is  labor 
in  drawing  just  conclusions  upon  any  art,  and 
how  much  of  that  kind  of  labor  shall  be  per- 
formed, is  a  question  that  must  always  rest  with 
the  public.  But  it  may  not  be  inopportune  to 
assert  that  the  dramatic  art,  or  art  of  acting, 

22 


Wift  Art  nf  Arttng 

would  make  more  rapid  improvement  if,  like  the 
art  of  painting,  it  might  sometimes  be  considered 
and  judged  apart  from  the  framework — situa- 
tions made  by  the  author.  If  criticisms  were 
more  frequently  the  result  of  reason  and  not  the 
outburst  of  an  impulse — then  the  patrons  of  the 
theatre  would  be  favored  with  better  perform- 
ances; for  true  artists,  finding  themselves  appre- 
ciated for  their  art,  would  be  content  to  remain 
in  stock  companies,  instead  of  "Starring  the 
Country"  to  appear  in  "tremendous  dramatic  sit- 
uations" or  to  display  individual  peculiarities, 
regardless  of  the  surroundings,  or  the  unities  of 
the  play.  With  just  discriminations  on  the  part 
of  the  public,  actors  would  be  led  to  adopt  a  higher 
standard  of  excellence  than  that  achieved  by, 
appropriating  to  themselves  the  applause .  be- 
stowed by  an  audience  upon  the  author's  "situ- 
ations." 

One  of  the  bad  effects  of  this  "misfit"  applause 
is  that  it  often  encourages  the  actor  to  get  en- 
tirely away  from  the  truth  of  the  character,  and 
to  become  thoroughly  absorbed  in  presenting  his 

23 


Sij^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

own  personality,  which  is  not  always  a  perfect 
illustration  of  the  author's  intention;  though  it 
is  quite  the  fashion  among  weak  and  merely  mer- 
cenary authors  of  the  present  time,  to  adapt  their 
work  to  the  idiosyncrasies  of  some  popular  actor 
or  actress  instead  of  requiring  the  dramatic  artist 
to  impersonate  the  characters  of  the  play. 


24 


HJIjat   XB   Arttng?    3(b    tt    an  Art? 
mijat  is  Art? 

A  VERY  distinguished  actor*  writing  upon 
^  ^  this  subject,  quite  recently,  said:  "Art  I 
define  as  a  whole,  wherein  a  large  element  of 
beauty  clothes  and  makes  acceptable  a  still  larger 
element  of  truth."  Now  while  there  can  be  no 
doubt  about  the  gentleman's  ability  as  an  artist, 
there  is  great  obscurity  in  his  definition  of  Art, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  there  may  be  some  doubt 
as  to  its  correctness. 

How  shall  we,  then,  define  art?  Let  us  seek 
for  a  definition  through  a  brief  process  of  induc- 
tion. 

Two  words  in  our  language,  "Nature"  and 
"Art,"  limit  and  define  the  universe  of  things. 

Art  is  not  Nature,  for  the  reason  that  Nature 

is  created  and  Art  is  made,  and  again, — 
*Coquelin. 

25 


®If^  Art  0f  Atttng 

Art  is  not  Nature  for  the  reason  that  Nature 
re-produces  plant  and  animal  after  their  kind, 
and  Art  only  re-presents  them,  and  again, — 

Art  is  not  Nature  for  the  reason  that  Nature  is 
ever  crescent  and  Art  is  ever  decaying. 

Everything  that  man  finds  here  he  calls  Nature. 
Everything  that  he  makes  he  calls  Art.  Nature 
is  created.  Art  is  made.  To  create,  in  its  orig- 
inal sense,  is  to  bring  forth  a  visible,  tangible 
something  from  an  invisible,  intangible  nothing; 
while  to  make,  is  simply  to  re-arrange  material 
already  created.  But  to  re-arrange — that  is,  to 
make — demands  a  mental  and  a  physical  force, 
and,  therefore,  art  is  a  result  of  the  application 
of  the  impressional  force  to  mental  conceptions 
through  muscular  action.  Under  this  definition 
art  becomes  a  generic  term  which  includes  the 
useful  as  well  as  the  fine  arts — two  species  based 
in  different  causes,  and  with  very  distinctive 
effects. 

The  useful  arts  are  the  outcome  of  the  mental 
and  physical  forces,  striving  for  the  perpetuity 
of  the  animal  man,  but  eventually  demoralizing 

26 


at  t0  Arttng? 

and  depreciating  the  very  forces  by  which  they 
come  into  existence.  As  thus:  Suppose  two 
mechanics  to  seek  employment  in  the  office  of  a 
machine  shop,  one  man  at  the  age  of  thirty,  the 
other  at  the  age  of  sixty-five.  Is  there  any  doubt 
as  to  which  one  will  obtain  the  employment,  other 
things  being  equal?  But  suppose  the  question 
were  of  oratory,  poetry  or  painting,  would  we 
seek  the  artist  of  sixty-five,  with  his  experience 
and  years  of  successful  work,  and,  more  than  all, 
with  his  certain  knowledge  of  his  art,  or  would 
we  intrust  the  work  to  the  inexperienced  man  of 
thirty,  who  is  just  beginning  his  career?  The 
answer  is  obvious.  The  fine  arts,  which  result 
from  the  efTort  of  the  mind  to  re-present  its  im- 
pressions of  nature,  actually  develop  and 
strengthen  the  artist,  while  giving  pleasure  and 
thereby  happiness  to  all  who  are  permitted  to 
observe  them,  through  any  of  the  five  senses.  The 
power  of  a  people  to  develop  fine  art  has  ever  been 
the  limiting  power  of  its  highest  civilization. 

It  is  very  generally  asserted  and  commonly  be- 
lieved that  excellence  in  acting  is  merely  a  matter 

27 


t  Art  nf  Arttng 

of  individual  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  actor, 
and  taste  on  the  part  of  the  audience.  To  the 
promulgation  and  acceptance  of  this  theory  of 
acting,  may  be  attributed  much  of  the  indifferent, 
not  to  say  bad,  acting  on  the  American  stage. 

This  theory  not  only  prevents  a  due  considera- 
tion and  proper  appreciation  of  a  very  delightful 
art,  among  cultivated  men  and  women,  but  it 
fosters  the  egotism  of  a  class  of  actors  and  nov- 
ices who  believe  they  were  really  born  great.  This 
pride  of  innate  greatness  is  a  quality  common  in 
the  human  mind.  It  shows  itself  in  the  love  of 
domination. 

The  desire  to  be  thought  a  creature  especially 
favored  by  the  Creator  is  so  strong  that  even 
the  so-called  "self-made  man" — he  to  whom  the 
world  accords  the  honor  of  seeming  to  shape  his 
own  destiny — will  often  in  boasting  of  his  own 
personal  achievements,  fall  back  upon  the  history 
of  his  ancestors,  and  assert  that  he  has  a  right 
to  the  position  accorded  him  by  his  admirers, 
because  of  his  mental  hereditaments  from  some 
progenitor  who  lived  high  up  in  the  family  tree. 

28 


at  ta  Artittg? 

Egotism — unquestioning  belief  in  self — is  a  lib- 
eral purveyor  to  human  vanity. 

It  is,  perhaps,  a  fortunate  thing  for  many  who 
live  by  the  exhibition  of  theatrical  performances, 
that  so  little  attention  is  paid  to  the  art  of  acting 
by  the  public  in  general  and  by  the  critics  in  par- 
ticular, but,  for  the  art  itself,  it  is  to  be  regretted 
that  there  are  but  few  disciples  on  the  stage,  and 
very  few  managers,  who  present  acting  to  the 
public  through  love  of  art,  or  for  any  other  pur- 
pose than  that  which  moves  the  merchant  to  pre- 
sent his  wares  for  sale — solely  for  the  acquisition 
of  money. 

Well,  is  not  the  dealer  entitled  to  all  he  can 
acquire  by  labor  expended  in  handling  an  article 
or  an  art?  Undoubtedly.  But  the  theatrical 
manager  has  less  moral  right  to  allow  the  art  of 
acting  to  deteriorate  by  his  handling  than  the 
merchant  has  to  adulterate  his  merchandise  or  to 
present  a  damaged  article  as  first  class.  The  pur- 
chaser of  adulterated  teas  may  examine  before  he 
buys,  but  the  purchaser  of  a  theatre  ticket  must 
buy  before  he  examines. 

29 


Slf^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

This  is  treating  of  acting  in  the  very  lowest 
line  of  consideration — as  mere  traffic  in  the 
struggle  for  existence,  by  those  who  deal  in  it. 

If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  assertion  of  the 
philosopher  who  said :  "Every  man  owes  some- 
thing to  the  art  whereby  he  lives/'  then,  certain- 
ly, the  professors  and  dealers  in  histrionism  owe 
something  to  the  art  of  acting ;  for  it  may  be  as- 
serted, without  fear  of  successful  contradiction, 
that  there  is  no  other  art  that  makes  such  large 
returns  upon  the  financial  and  intellectual  capital 
invested. 

Is  acting  merely  a  matter  of  taste?  Taste  is 
a  result  of  mental  action.  It  may  be  inherent 
and  it  may  be  cultivated  and  its  function  is  to 
accept  or  reject,  to  approve  or  disapprove  of  a 
thing  already  made.  Taste  never  makes  any- 
thing— it  never  does  anything  except  to  select 
or  to  reject,  for  its  own  gratification.  Taste  is  a 
mental  quality  and  not  a  factor  in  physical  force. 
Taste  is  a  kind  of  censor  that  sits  in  judgment  on 
all  the  exterior  and  interior  circumstances  of  life ; 
and  its  services    are    just    as    necessary  to  the 

30 


/ 


Ulfat  XB  Arttng? 

acknowledged  arts  of  Poetry,  Music  and  Paint- 
ing as  to  the  disputed  art  of  Acting.  All  poets, 
musicians  and  painters  will  admit  the  influence 
of  taste  in  their  art,  but  none  of  them  will  admit 
that  their  art  is  merely  taste. 

Feeling  is  one  of  the  senses  common  to  animal 
life.  It  is  a  faculty  in  human  nature  on  which 
no  one  relies — except  for  first  impressions — 
when  he  can  bring  his  judgment  to  bear,  or  have 
the  advantage  of  deductions  made  by  compari- 
sons.y/Feeling  is  that  sense  that  places  human 
nature  in  or  out  of  sympathy  with  its  surround- 
ings whether  mental  or  physical.  It  is  therefore 
a  faculty  absolutely  necessary  to  the  art  of  act- 
in^pi^Feeling  is  an  elementary  motor  to  art;  for 
as  taste  prompts  to  the  selection,  so  does  feeling 
prompt  to  the  doing.  But  as  power  without 
proper  direction  may  destroy  the  very  object  for 
whose  advancement  it  is  raised,  so  feeling  tm- 
controlled  may  make  a  lunatic  instead  of  an  art- 
ist. The  modern  crank  is  a  result  of  misdirected 
feeling. 

Shakespeare  says :    "The  purpose  of  playing,'* 

31 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

that  is,  acting,  "both  at  the  first  and  now,  was 
and  is  to  hold,  as  't  were,  the  mirror  up  to  nature" 
• — by  imitation — **to  show  virtue  her  own  fea- 
ture, scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age  and 
body  of  the  time  his  form  and  pressure." 

Therefore,  acting  does  something.      It  makes 

something.      Acting  makes  physical  pictures  of 

mental  conceptions     Acting  is  therefore  an  art. 

It  results  from  a  constant  application  of  mental 

force  to  a  physical  effect,  in  the  re-presentations 

of  Nature.     It  is  pleasing  to  the  beholder  and 

strengthening  to  the  doer.    Acting  is  therefore  a 

I  fine  art,  and  may  be  defined  as  the  art  of  re-pre- 

/  senting  human  emotions  by  a  just  expression  of 

'  the  artificial  and  the  natural  language. 

Taste  and  feeling  are  not  arts.  Acting  is  an 
art ;  therefore,  acting  is  not  a  mere  matter  of  taste 
and  feeling. 

Taste  and  feeling  are,  however,  necessary  to 
the  art  of  acting.  And  although  the  function 
of  taste  in  acting  is  as  genuine  as  it  would  nec- 
essarily be  in  the  selection  of  this  or  that  kind  of 
discourse  for  a  serious  or  joyous  occasion,  or  the 

32 


Mlfat  t0  Arttttg? 

selection  of  this  or  that  kind  of  color  in  arranging 
pleasing  effects  in  costumes  or  draperies,  or  in 
selecting  this  or  that  quality  of  music  for  a 
funeral  or  a  jubilee;  yet  the  feeling  that  appears, 
or  seems  to  be,  in  acting,  is  not  necessarily  the 
genuine  sensation  of  the  emotion  of  the  dramatic 
character  represented,  but  a  likeness  of  the  emo- 
tion in  accordance  with  the  actor's  conception 
of  his  author's  presentation. 

An  emotion  is  the  result  of  self-love  affected 
by  an  exterior  circumstance,  either  past  or  pres- 
ent, and  may  be  divided  into  three  parts — im- 
pression, sensation  and  expression — the  out- 
come in  voice,  pose  and  gesture.  In  nature  all 
of  these  factors  are  active  in  the  presentation  of 
joy,  sorrow,  anger,  or  whatever  emotion  or  phase 
of  an  emotion  is  presented.  In  the  art  of  acting, 
sensation  may  be  absent  but  judgment  resulting 
from  observation  and  comparison  must,  through 
the  faculty  of  memory,  and  the  mimetic  force, 
direct  the  physical  action  so  as  to  produce  a  like- 
ness of  the  emotion. 

In  proof  of  the  position  here  assumed,  that  the 

33 


arif^  Art  0f  Arttng 

art  of  acting  does  not  necessitate,  on  the  part  of 
the  actor,  the  genuine  sensation  or  feeling  of  love 
or  joy,  or  anger,  or  whatever  emotion  the  author 
may  be  describing  by  his  situations,  may  be  cited 
two  or  three  illustrations  that  are  familiar  to 
actors  and  are  perhaps  worth  the  consideration 
of  the  public  as  facts  that  will  enable  them  to 
better  understand  true  art  in  acting. 

The  opinion  prevails  largely  that  actors  who 
are  capable  of  intense  earnestness  in  their  efforts 
to  imitate  the  signs  of  an  emotion,  actually  feel 
the  sensation  of  the  emotion  they  are  re-present- 
ing. Now  this  theory  of  feeling  is  just  as  appli- 
cable to  the  poet,  the  painter,  or  the  musician,  as 
it  is  to  the  actor. 

The  poet,  the  painter,  and  the  musician  are 
subject  to  cold  feet  and  hands,  and  fevered,  ach- 
ing heads,  though  sitting  apparently  quiet  in  the 
chair,  doing  the  labor  of  their  respective  arts ;  yet 
no  one  thinks  of  asking  the  poet  if  he  feels 
distressed  because  he  fancies  that  "up  the  high 
hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone."  Nor  does 
any  one  ask  the  musician  if  the  vibrations  of  the 

34 


miiat  ia  Arttng? 

low  notes  in  his  compositions  have  jarred  him 
into  a  headache.  Nor  do  we  ask  the  painter  if 
his  fatigue  comes  from  mental  perturbations  be- 
cause he  is  painting  a  rearing  horse.  No,  we  at- 
tribute the  distress  to  the  intense  mental  labor  of 
re-presenting  mental  impressions  by  word  pic- 
tures, tone  pictures,  and  line  and  color  pictures. 

So  do  the  signs  of  distress  manifested  by  a 
histrionic  artist  after  a  great  effort,  result  from 
an  over-draught  of  the  nervous  and  muscular 
force,  prompted  by  self-love  struggling,  through 
love  of  art,  for  approbation. 

Earnestness  is  a  prime  factor  in  success. 
Greatness  cannot  be  achieved  without  it.  Earn- 
estness in  what  ? 

Earnestness  in  doings  the. imitation.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  Mme.  B.'s  Camille  is  only  an  imitation 
— a  sham  ?  Yes,  'tis  true — and  no  pity  'tis  true — 
Mme.  B.'s  Camille  is  a  sham,  but  the  presentation 
is  good,  solid,  earnest  work, — a  severe  tax  on 
nerve  and  muscle  for  the  evening. 

There  are  many  who  believe  that  Mme.  B. 
actually  feels  all  the  joys  and  sorrows  described 

35 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

in  the  character  of  Camille,  when  she  plays  it. 
If  this  were  true  "Camille"  would  undoubtedly 
soon  pass  from  the  popular  stage  performances 
of  the  day  for,  at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  the  grief 
of  Camille  at  parting  with  her  lover  is  so  great 
that  she  is  ill  for  six  weeks.  Now  suppose  Mme. 
B.  actually  experienced  the  feelings  of  Camille, 
the  curtain  couldn't  go  up  on  the  fourth  act  for 
six  weeks — a  long  stage  wait.  People  who  are 
so  eager  to  catch  the  early  train  that  they  rise 
before  the  final  curtain  is  fairly  down,  would 
probably  be  a  little  late  in  their  return  home.  No, 
Mme.  B.  does  not  feel  as  Camille  felt.  But  who 
knows  it?  Not  the  audience;  for  if  the  audience 
can  for  a  moment  think  that  the  artist  is  not  suf- 
fering with  those  whom  they  see  suffer,  then 
Mme.  B.'s  performance  is  a  failure  in  the  art  of 
acting,  which  must  be  a  perfect  imitation  of 
nature. 

Who  knows,  then,  that  this  apparent  suffering 
is  not  reality? 

Let  us  step  behind  the  scenes  for  a  moment. 
Perhaps  some  of  you  have  been  there  already. 

36 


So  much  the  better.  True  art  is  better  appreci- 
ated where  it  is  well  known. 

Well,  here  we  are,  and  the  Camille  of  the  eve- 
ning is  just  preparing  to  go  on,  in  the  third  act — 
a  long  and  difficult  scene.  Before  the  curtain 
rises  she  calls  her  maid  and  says:  "J^^^*  yo^^ 
know  this  scene  is  very  long,  and  I  am  always 
very  much  fatigued  at  the  end  of  it,  so  do  have 
something  to  refresh  me  when  I  come  off,"  and 
Jane  replies :    "Yes,  ma'am,  the  same  as  usual  ?" 

Camille  says:  "Yes,  I  think  so.  Yes,  that 
will  do,  only  let  it  be  very  cold — or,  no,  I  think 
I'd  better  have—" 

Here  the  call  boy  says :  "Curtain's  up,  Madame 
B."  and  away  Camille  flies  to  the  entrance,  leav- 
ing Jane  in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  desires  a 
glass  of  iced  tea  or  a  glass  of  lemonade. 

The  scene  progresses — Camille  chats  with 
Mme.  Prudence,  Nichette  and  Gustave.  She 
talks  of  their  friendship,  the  love  of  Armand, 
that  is  making  her  life  like  a  dream  of  happiness. 
She  pictures  herself  in  simple  summer  dress  skip- 
ping through  the  fields,  or  sailing  on  the  water 

37 


aijf?  Art  0f  Arting 

by  his  side  and  her  happiness  grows  in  the  sim- 
pHcity  and  quietness  of  her  Hfe,  until  she  sees 
herself  a  child  again.  Then  comes  Armand's 
father  on  the  scene — like  cloud  o'er  summer  sun 
— casting  a  shadow  over  her  brightest  hopes. 
He  crushes  her  heart  to  save  his  own.  He  pleads 
for  the  honor  of  his  family,  and  for  his  son's 
future.  He  exacts  a  promise  that  she  will  bid 
Armand  farewell  forever.  She  writes  her  fare- 
well to  Armand!  He  comes  on  the  scene  and 
finds  her  agitated,  and  in  tears!    He  exclaims: 

"Ah,  Camille,  how  can  I  ever  return  such  de- 
votion and  love!" 

Then  follows  the  outburst  of  her  love,  losing 
itself  in  the  sobs  and  tears  of  grief  at  parting. 

"And  you  are  happy,  are  you  not  ?  And  when 
you  recall,  one  day,  the  little  proofs  of  love  I 
have  bestowed  on  you,  you  will  not  despise  nor 
curse  my  memory.  Oh  do  not,  do  not  curse  me 
when  you  learn  how  I  have  loved  you  I" 
"But  why  these  tears,  Camille  ?" 
"Do  not  heed  them,  Armand.  See,  they  are 
all  gone !  No  more  tears.  And  you,  too,  are  smil- 
ing. Ah !  I  will  live  on  that  smile  until  we  meet 
again.      bee,  I,  too,  can  smile.     You  can  read 

38 


Hljat  ta  Arttns? 

until  your  father  comes,  and  think  of  me ;  for  I 
shall  never  cease  to  think  of  you!  Adieu,  Ar- 
mand!     Adieu  forever!" 

Camille  disappears,  and  sinks  exhausted  on  a 
sofa  behind  the  scenes.  Her  maid  approaches 
with  a  glass  of  cold  tea,  which  the  actress  no 
sooner  tastes  than  she  rejects  with  an  expres- 
sion of  disgust,  and  exclaims  against  her  maid: 
''Oh !  You  stupid  thing !  I  told  you  to  give  me 
a  glass  of  lemonade!  I  don't  want  cold  tea! 
IVe  told  you  so  a  thousand  times !  There,  there, 
don't  talk,  but  take  it  away." 

And  thus  the  love  and  grief  of  Camille  in- 
stantly disappears  in  the  impatience  of  Madame 
B.,  who,  ignorant  of  the  true  cause  of  her  pros- 
tration, fancies  that  her  distress  results  from  ex- 
periencing the  genuine  feelings  of  Camille;  but 
Jane  knows,  even  while  the  delighted  audience  are 
applauding  an  artistic  representation  of  love  and 
grief,  that  their  Camille,  who  radiant  with  smiles 
answers  to  their  "cair*  before  the  curtain,  is  still 
her  impatient,  petulant  mistress, — ready  to  re- 
peat the  imitation  of  her  loves  and  sorrows  and 

39 


®if^  An  of  Arting 

final  death,  every  night  of  the  six  weeks'  "run," 
the  period  of  time  through  which  Dumas  says  the 
original  Camille  suffered  illness,  almost  to  death, 
because  of  her  experiences  with  the  genuine  feel- 
ings or  sensations  of  love  and  grief.  Then,  too, 
if  the  artiste  really  feels  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
Camille,  it  follows  that  in  order  to  be  consistent 
with  this  theory  of  acting,  Mme  B.  should  also 
experience  the  sensations  which  caused  Camille's 
death ;  for  if,  in  order  to  be  artistic  in  represent- 
ing joy  and  sorrow,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
feel  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  character  that 
the  artist  is  illustrating  or  portraying,  how  can 
she  represent  artistically  the  death  scene  of 
Camille,  without  feeling  the  throes  of  death  ?  In 
short,  upon  this  theory  of  absolute  necessity  of 
feeling  or  experiencing  the  sensations  of  the 
character  that  the  artist  is  illustrating  or  portray- 
ing, how  can  she  represent  artistically  the  death 
scene  of  Camille,  without  feeling  the  throes  of 
death?  In  short,  upon  this  theory  of  absolute 
necessity  of  feeling  or  experiencing  the  sensa- 
tions of  the  character  to  be  portrayed,  how  can 

40 


mifut  XB  Arttttg? 

the  true  artist  represent  Camille's  death  without 
herself  dying? 

Truly  a  sad  condition  for  a  fine  art  to  fall  into 
— where  the  professors  must  die  in  order  to  live. 
Why,  upon  this  theory  the  dramatic  profession 
would  need  a  whole  nation  to  recruit  from, — that 
is,  if  the  actors  were  obliged  to  feel  all  the  emo- 
tions, to  experience  all  the  sensations,  of  the  he- 
roes and  heroines,  as,  for  example,  the  Hamlets, 
the  Macbeths,  the  Othellos,  the  Ophelias,  the 
Desdemonas  and  the  Ladies  Macbeth. 

And  when  the  artist  asserts  that  the  imperson- 
ation must  be  correct  because  it  was  the  outcome 
of  feeling,  it  may  not  be  too  censorious  to  assert 
that  such  a  statement  is  not  only  the  result  of 
ignorance  of  the  laws  that  govern  a  highly  sensi- 
tive being  who  must  suffer  fatigue  in  doing  art 
under  the  exhausting  demands  of  self-love,  for 
approbation,  but  it  is  an  acknowledgment  of  ig- 
norance of  the  true  science  that  underlies  the  art 
of  acting.  And  to  assimie  that  feeling  without 
judgment  can  truly  portray  the  dramatic  crea- 
tures of  such  a  writer  as  Shakespeare,  or  any 

41 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttng 

other  dramatic  writer  whose  works  take  rank 
with  the  best  literature  of  our  language,  indicates 
the  same  inability  to  arrive  at  just  conclusions 
that  would  be  manifested  by  a  mariner  who,  be- 
caused  his  ship  was  propelled  by  an  engine  of 
ten  thousand  horse  power,  should  attempt  to 
cross  the  ocean  without  rudder  or  compass. 

It  is  by  the  public  in  general  contended  that 
in  order  to  make  the  auditor  feel,  the  orator  and 
the  actor  must  feel  the  sensation  he  is  presenting. 

The  fallacy  of  this  argument  may  be  illus- 
trated thus: 

The  farmer  plants  his  crop  of  corn  in  the 
springtime.  When  the  corn  sprout  rises  above 
the  ground  an  inch  or  two  the  crow  comes  from 
the  adjacent  forest  and  plucks  it  up  to  get  the 
sweet  swollen  kernel.  To  frighten  the  crow  the 
farmer  takes  a  suit  of  old  clothes,  stuffs  it  with 
straw,  puts  a  pair  of  boots  on  the  legs,  a  hat  on 
the  top  and  hangs  it  up  or  stands  it  up  in  the 
cornfield.  The  crow,  seeing  the  figure  of  a  man, 
flies  away.  May  we  not  fairly  assume  that  the 
crow  flies  away  because  it  feels  fear?     What 

42 


at  XB  Arttng? 

does  the  figure  of  the  man  feel  that  produced  fear 
in  the  crow?  Nothing.  The  more  perfect  the 
sign,  the  stronger  will  be  the  responsive  sensa- 
tion. Now  add  to  the  actor  the  love  of  approba- 
tion as  a  driving  force  and  the  tone,  pose  and 
gesture  are  the  signs  of  the  author's  mental  in- 
tention. 

Not  only  does  the  theory  of  acting  by  feeling 
retard  the  art  by  obscuring  from  the  actors  the 
necessity  of  study,  but  it  must  necessarily  often 
destroy  the  intention  of  the  author.  Great  dra- 
matic composition  is  a  result  of  the  highest  devel- 
opment of  all  of  the  senses  that  combine  to  make 
human  intelligence.  And  it  takes  its  position  in 
every  civilized  country  among  its  proudest  liter- 
ary achievements.  The  history  of  Greece  and 
Rome  in  ancient  times,  and  Spain,  France,  Eng- 
land and  Germany  in  modern  times,  will  warrant 
the  position.  At  any  rate,  the  dramatic  works  of 
Shakespeare  are  ranked  so  high  in  the  scale  of 
rational  productions,  that  his  hundreds  of  com- 
mentators have  wondered  at  his  beautiful  congre- 
gations of  facts,  fancies  and  philosophy,  while  not 

43 


^ift  Art  0f  Arttttg 

a  few  scholars  both  of  America  and  of  England 
have  tried  to  credit  these  productions  to  the  great 
Sir  Francis  Bacon,  who  through  his  accumulated 
knowledge  and  power  of  reasoning  achieved  the 
reputation  of  being  one  of  the  wisest  men  of  his 
nation.  Whatever  else  this  may  mean,  it  cer- 
tainly is  a  great  compliment  to  the  intellectuality 
of  dramatic  writings.  And  can  it  be  possible  that 
the  players'  art,  the  art  of  illustrating  the  works 
of  such  great  thinkers,  shall  be  relegated  to  feel- 
ing, which  is  only  one  of  the  five  senses  that  com- 
bine to  make  up  reason  ? 

The  dramatic  writer  is  a  constructor  of  indi- 
vidual characters.  He  congregates  and  adjusts 
human  emotions,  and  so  expresses  them  in  arti- 
ficial language  that  their  kind  and  their  degree 
are  through  his  medium  made  known.  Hamlet, 
Macbeth  and  Othello,  Ophelia,  Lady  Macbeth 
and  Desdemona  have  long  been  recognized  as 
distinct  characters,  as  susceptible  to  mental  form- 
ation and  physical  representation  by  the  students 
of  the  dramatic  art,  as  are  the  statues  of  the 
Apollo  Belvidere  or  the  Venus  de  Milo,  to  repro- 

44 


Hlfat  iB  Artittg? 

duction  by  the  students  of  sculpture  or  the  plastic 
art.  It  is  true,  perhaps,  that  among  actors,  no 
two  of  them  present  the  same  characteristics  in 
their  impersonation  of  Hamlet.  The  differences 
in  the  Hamlets  presented  cannot  result  from  any 
change  in  Hamlet  himself;  for  the  author — ^the 
constructor  of  that  character — ^has  been  dead 
now  nearly  three  centuries,  and  Shakespeare's 
Hamlet  must  remain  the  Hamlet  till  doomsday. 
But  just  as  two  painters  might  contend  for  the 
truth  of  different  lights  and  shadows  in  a  picture, 
after  having  made  their  studies  from  opposite 
points  of  view,  and  each,  inspired  by  feeling, 
asserts  that  he  alone  is  right,  so  do  some  actors, 
unable  to  analyze  for  the  truth,  alter  the  text, 
inject  action  and  interpolate  language  so  as  to 
change  the  construction  of  Shakespeare's  work, 
fitting  it  to  their  own  peculiarities,  until  it  is  no 
longer  the  work  of  the  great  dramatist,  but  the 
maimed  and  halting  production  of  the  actor's 
idiosyncrasies.  Whatever  feeling  may  do  for  nat- 
ural language,  it  certainly  has  not  the  power  to 
analyze  and  determine  the  meaning  of  words  and 

45 


®lj^  Art  0f  Artttts 

phrases  in  artificial  language.  And  as  the  works 
of  great  dramatic  writers  are  admitted  to  be 
among  the  best  rational  as  well  as  emotional 
achievements  in  all  languages,  is  it  not  probable 
that  an  actor  will  find  a  more  truthful  conception 
of  a  dramatic  situation  or  speech  by  seeking  for  it 
through  the  functions  of  memory  and  comparison 
than  by  groping  for  it  through  the  operations 
of  feeling? 

Feeling  is  not  only  a  good,  but  a  necessary, 
motor  in  acting;  but  it  must  be  governed  by  rea- 
son if  we  would  obtain  best  results. 

That  feeling  ungoverned  by  reason  may  pro- 
duce results  quite  foreign  to  the  author's  inten- 
tion, is  clearly  shown  through  the  analysis,  given 
by  herself,  of  the  feelings  of  a  celebrated  actress,* 
on  which  she  based  her  representations  of  the 
Sleep-walking  Scene  of  "Lady  Macbeth."  The 
actress  in  a  press  interview  said:  "I  stand  there 
smitten  with  horror,  dumb  with  remorse,  till  the 
tears  run  down  slowly  and  silently  on  my  cheeks, 
before  my  lips  can  utter  a  word." 


*Ristori. 

46 


at  t0  Arttttg? 

Now,  however  much  opinions  may  vary  about 
the  first  part  of  "Lady  Macbeth,"  it  is  generally 
admitted  that  her  death  results  from  remorse, — 
an  overpowering-  depression  of  self-love  when  tor- 
tured by  the  fear  of  punishment  for  wrong- 
doing ;  and  when  the  judgment  settles  into  a  con- 
viction that  repentance  and  atonement  cannot  re- 
gain the  lost  approbation  of  the  world,  despair, 
the  offspring  of  hopeless  remorse,  seizes  the  vic- 
tim, paralyzes  the  mind,  destroys  its  healthful 
relations  with  the  outside  world,  self-love  is  lost, 
self-preservation  forgotten,  the  will  power  ceases, 
and  the  body  dies.  In  the  fever  of  remorse  there 
are  no  tears.  Through  repentance  the  mind  may 
again  be  put  in  harmony  with  its  surroundings 
and  the  penitent  may  live;  but  Lady  Macbeth 
dies  of  remorse;  therefore,  we  may  conclude  she 
did  not  repent. 

In  Lady  Macbeth's  remorse  there  is  despair, 
but  no  contrition.  There  is  that  mental  gnawing 
that  disjoints  her  mind,  breaks  her  repose,  and 
ends  in  a  mania  or  melancholia  through  which 
death  must  ensue. 

47 


JSift  Art  nf  Arltng 

Nowhere  in  all  her  character  do  we  find  a  line 
declaring  or  indicating  repentance;  and  no  one 
will,  for  a  moment,  doubt  Shakespeare's  ability  to 
furnish  words  of  contrition  had  he  desired  to 
make  Lady  Macbeth  express  sorrow  for  her  sinful 
act. 

Look  at  the  sublime  soliloquy  of  King  Claudius 
in  "Hamlet," — ^acknowledging  his  guilt,  express- 
ing his  hope  and  praying  for  pardon. 

On  the  contrary,  Shakespeare  seems  to  have 
marked  out  a  course  of  mental  disease  and  final 
death  for  Lady  Macbeth;  for  when  Macbeth  is 
breaking  under  the  effects  of  the  horror  induced 
by  the  scene  of  the  murder  that  he  has  just  com- 
mitted. Lady  Macbeth  says : 

"These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways,  so ;  it  will  make  us  mad." 

In  the  Fifth  Act  the  physician  who  watches 
with  the  gentlewoman,  after  observing  all  her  ac- 
tions and  hearing  her  words,  says : 

"More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physi- 
cian." 

And  again,  in  reply  to  Macbeth's  question — 

48 


at  10  Arttttg? 

"How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ?" 

the  physician  replies : 

"Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 
As   she  is  troubled   with   thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest." 

Then  Macbeth  rejoins : 

"Cure  her  of  that: 
Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseas'd ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain; 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuff 'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff  ?" 

"Therein  the  patient 
Must  minister  to  himself," 

replies  the  physician.  How  do  criminals  minister 
to  themselves?  What  is  it  that  brings  quiet  to 
the  mind,  and  the  re-establishment  of  its  healthful 
action?  Repentance.  With  repentance  comes 
sympathy  from  the  world;  and,  through  sym- 
pathy, pity  for  self  is  aroused,  and  through  this 
pity  or  compassion  for  self  come  tears.  In  honest 
communion  with  ourselves,  through  love  of  ap- 
probation, begotten  of  self-love,  we  pity  our  own 
failures  and  condemn  our  own  misdeeds. 

49 


aUji?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

But  Lady  Macbeth  did  not  repent;  therefore, 
we  may  conclude  she  did  not  seek  the  sympathy 
of  the  world,  did  not  receive  the  sympathy  of  the 
world ;  but  that  a  lingering  pride,  the  remnant  of 
her  great  selfishness,  that  led  her  to  seek  royal 
honors  by  ambition's  cruel  ways,  even  through 
the  horrid  murder  of  the  aged  King,  sustained 
her  in  the  despair  of  her  remorse ;  and,  therefore, 
Lady  Macbeth  did  not  weep. 

Yet  the  actress  says  she  weeps  whenever  she 
attempts  to  re-present  this  part  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth*s  character.  And  she  says  she  cannot  help 
it.  Naturally  she  weeps,  for  she  is  a  woman  of 
fine  feeling,  of  strong  sympathetic  nature,  and 
she  pities  Lady  Macbeth  as  she  looks  upon  her 
mental  and  physical  ruin — a  wreck  of  the  earlier 
Lady  Macbeth:  And  when  she  weeps  her  tears 
flow  from  sorrow  for  the  sufferings  of  another. 
''  Her  condition  is  perfectly  natural,  but  it  is  not 
therefore  artistic. 

If  you  should  go  to  a  lunatic  asylum  to  see  a 
former  friend,  a  woman  with  whom  you  had  been 
well  acquainted,  a  woman  whose  physical  beauty 

50 


Wijat  IB  Artttig? 

and  mental  strength  had  inspired  you  with  ad- 
miration, and  upon  this,  your  first  visit,  she 
should  come  before  you  so  changed  in  feature 
that  you  could  scarcely  recognize  her — a  shriveled 
form,  a  death-pale  face,  with  shrunken  cheeks, 
with  staring,  glassy  eyes;  and  if,  instead  of  rec- 
ognizing and  saluting  you,  she  should,  with 
idiotic  leer,  pass  you  by,  or  stand  muttering 
broken  and  discordant  sentences, — what  would 
be  your  feelings  in  such  a  situation  ?  Undoubted- 
ly you  would  feel  pity  for  your  lost  friend,  and 
you  would  shed  tears  of  sympathy  for  her  condi- 
tion. This  picture  places  before  us  two  individ- 
uals— the  one  a  woman  ignorant  of  her  condition, 
and  entirely  devoid  of  any  sign  of  acute  suffering 
— the  other  a  sympathetic  friend  weeping  for  the 
weakness  of  poor  human  nature  that  can  be  so 
wrecked.  The  maniac  is  Lady  Macbeth.  The 
sympathetic  lady  is  the  actress  who  acts  upon 
feelings  aroused  in  her  by  looking  at  Shakes- 
peare's wonderful  mental  wreckage,  and  so  pre- 
sents herself  instead  of  re-presenting  the  emotions 
of  Lady  Macbeth.     And,  thus,  through  feeling, 

51 


©Ij^  Art  of  Arttttg 

this  great  tragic  character  is  robbed  of  one  of  its 
most  awe-inspiring  effects — death  without  repent- 
ance. 

That  the  actor  himself  is  practically  false  to 
this  theory  of  feeling  may  be  clearly  shown  by 
stepping  into  his  dressing-room  almost  any  even- 
ing in  the  week,  especially,  if  that  evening  be  dur- 
ing the  season  of  field  sports.  He  returns  late 
from  the  game  to  take  up  his  work  for  the  public. 
As  he  enters  the  precinct  of  grease  paint  and 
character  costumes,  he  throws  himself  on  the 
three-legged  chair  with  a  broken  back,*  and, 
heaving  a  long  sigh,  says:  ''By  Jove!  I  don't 
feel  a  bit  lik^  this  thing  to-night.  It  was  fear- 
fully stupid  of  me  to  stay  so  late,  when  I  know 
I  must  get  through  this  thing  once  more." 

He  lights  a  cigar,  puffs  awhile,  and  discourses 
with  a  fellow  actor  upon  the  merits  of  the  tobacco 
and  the  great  beauty  of  the  game  he  has  wit- 
nessed, until  the  call  boy's  voice  is  heard  an- 
nouncing "Half  hour,"  when  the  actor  starts  up 
with  "Well,  I  must  get  ready;  and  to  say  the 


*The  bad  condition  of  the  stock  actor's  dressing-room. 

52 


at  ta  Artttis? 

truth,  I  feel  as  stupid  as  an  owl!  But  there  is 
one  comfort,  twelve  o'clock  must  come  and  the 
curtain  must  come  down."  Then  he  dresses  for 
the  character — straightens  up  his  body — takes  in 
a  long  breath — walks  up  and  down  in  his  room 
or  behind  the  scenes — thinks  over  his  lines,  and, 
having  aroused  sufficient  force  of  determined 
mental  action  to  overcome  the  relaxation  result- 
ing from  the  fatigue  of  the  day,  he  begins  to  con- 
centrate on  the  illustration  of  the  character,  with 
all  its  emotions  and  phases  of  emotions,  and  in 
spite  of  his  feeling  of  fatigue,  his  mental  weari- 
ness or  his  actual  headache  from  too  much  nerv- 
ous strain  during  the  afternoon,  or,  from  the 
unexpected  illness  of  one  of  the  cast,  the  artist  is 
frequently  complimented  for  his  art,  by  his  admir- 
ing friends  waiting  for  him  at  the  back  door ;  and 
the  actor  immediately  remarks:  "Well,  I  didn't 
feel  a  bit  like  it  to-night  I" 

Will  not  these  illustrations,  by  foregoing  state- 
ments of  facts,  permit  us  to  assume  that  the  dra- 
matic artist  never,  or,  at  best,  but  very  seldom, 
feels    like    the    character;    and    that    egotism, 

53 


ailj?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

prompted  by  the  love  of  approbation,  leads  some 
actors  to  think  that  their  ability  to  portray  char- 
acters by  re-presenting  emotions,  is  a  special 
gift.  But  just  so  surely  as  obtrusive  egotism  is 
the  outcome  of  selfishness,  so  is  the  theory  of 
feeling  in  acting  the  result  of  ignorance  of  the 
science  of  emotions,  the  art  of  acting  and  of  the 
powers  of  human  endurance 

Suppose  we  assume  for  the  sake  of  argument 
that  Lady  Macbeth  was  six  months  dying,  from 
the  remorse  she  felt  because  of  her  crime. 

Now  let  us  suppose  a  run  of  one  hundred  and 
eighty  nights  of  this  play. 

And  suppose  the  actress  really  did  feel  all  the 
sensations  that  Lady  Macbeth  felt.  Then  at  the 
end  of  the  first  performance  she  would  have  lost 
the  one  hundred  and  eightieth  part  of  her  force. 
How  could  she  on  the  second  night  of  the  "run'* 
^  play  the  first  part  of  the  character  with  all  neces- 
sary force?  And  if  we  were  to  assume  that  the 
actress  recovered  each  day  from  the  remorse  of 
the  night  before,  she  would  not  die  at  the  end  of 
the  run  of  the  one  hundred  and  eighty  nights,  or 

54 


WJfat  ia  Arttng? 

six  months ;  and  so,  would  not  her  condition  any- 
where along  the  line  prove  that  she  did  not  feel  as 
Lady  Macbeth  felt? 

Then,  if  it  be  impossible  for  the  artist  to  feel 
like  the  character  portrayed,  what  should  he  feel 
like?  He  should  feel  like  an  artist  who  has 
trained  his  nerve  and  muscular  force  to  submit 
his  mimetic  force  entirely  to  his  judgment  in  re- 
presenting the  intellectual  and  emotional  char- 
acters made  by  authors  of  dramatic  compositions. 

The  actor  must  have  a  cultivated  mind  to  ar- 
rive at  correct  conclusions  in  analyzing  the  sen- 
tences of  an  author.  He  must  have  a  trained 
body  to  enable  him  to  present  in  physical  pictures 
— the  mental  conceptions — resulting  from  such 
analysis. 

We  know  that  acting  is  doing  something;  and 
we  know  that  doing  is  the  result  of  muscular 
force  under  mental  control;  and  we  know  that 
under  mental  control  muscle  can  be  trained  to  do 
anything,  from  the  beautiful  posing  of  the  grace- 
ful danseuse,  or  the  eccentric  suppleness  of  the 
contortionist  in  a  circus,  to  the  feats  of  the  strong 

55 


®I}^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

man,  whose  breast  supports  a  two  thousand  pound 
cannon,  while  it  is  being  discharged. 

If  acting  is  the  art  of  re-presenting  human 
emotions  by  just  expression — true  outward  signs 
that  made  known  internal  feelings — through 
artificial  and  natural  language,  then  certainly 
a  knowledge  of  emotions  and  the  various  forms 
in  which  they  present  themselves,  must  be 
a  necessary  factor  in  representing  the  truth,  or 
true  art.  This  knowledge  to  be  available,  must  be 
systematized ;  and  knowledge  so  arranged  as  to  be 
easily  remembered  and  readily  referred  to  is 
science. 

In  nearly  all  discussions  on  technique,  there 
has  been  expressed  the  fear  that  technique,  if 
pursued  with  special  care,  might  destroy  or  cover 
up  the  true  meaning  of  the  phrase  or  sentence  to 
which  it  is  applied.  This  fear  is  a  fancy  to  be  dis- 
carded; for  technique  is  nothing  more  than  the 
premeditated  use  of  the  forms  of  voice,  pose  and 
gesture,  through  which  sensation  presents  itself 
in  nature.  And  the  question,  "If  acting  is  all 
technique,  why  cannot  every  man  with  a  good 

56 


Mljat  10  Arting? 

voice  and  brains  act  'Hamlet?'''  is  assumed  by 
its  propounders  to  be  an  insurpassable  barrier, 
estopping  the  further  progress  of  debate  on  the 
question  of  real  and  imitated  emotions.  This  is  in 
the  first  place  misleading  in  its  assumptions;  for 
it  IS  not  asserted  by  all  professors  of  dramatic 
art  that  acting  is  all  technique.  And  again,  it  is 
not  asserted  by  any  thoughtful  professor  of  dra- 
matic art  that  every  man  with  a  good  voice  and 
brains  cannot  act  "Hamlet." 

By  parity  of  reasoning  or  an  analogous  mode 
of  questioning,  one  might  ask:  "If  singing  is  all 
technique  why  can't  every  woman  with  a  good 
voice  and  brains  sing  'Carmen  ?' "  or,  "If  horse 
racing  is  all  technique,  why  cannot  every  horse 
with  four  legs  and  good  brains  win  on  the  race 
course?"  Well,  this  is  a  simple  answer.  Every 
horse  with  four  good  legs  and  brains  cannot  win 
on  the  race  course  because  there  is  a  standard  of 
time  that  he  cannot  achieve.  Every  woman  with 
a  good  voice  and  brains  cannot  sing  "Carmen" 
because  there  is  a  standard  in  singing  that  she 
cannot  reach.    And  every  man  with  a  good  voice 

57 


Qllfp  Art  nf  Artittg 

and  brains  cannot  act  "Hamlet"  because  there  is 
a  standard  of  excellence  in  acting,  with  which 
he  does  not  favorably  compare. 

This  analysis  shows  a  defect  in  the  question. 
{/  There  is  a  standard  of  excellence  for  skill.  To 
present  the  intention  of  the  propounders  the  ques- 
tion may  be  thus  stated:  "If  acting  is  all  tech- 
nique, why  cannot  every  man  with  a  good  voice 
and  brains  act  'Hamlet'  up  to  the  same  standard 
of  excellence?" 

Now  for  the  answer.  It  is  not  asserted  by  pro- 
fessors of  dramatic  art  that  every  man  with  a 
good  voice  and  brains  cannot  act  "Hamlet."  But 
it  is  asserted  that  acting  is  an  art.  Art  is  always 
a  result  of  the  application  of  impressional  force 
to  mental  conceptions,  through  muscular  action. 
Art  never  creates  anything,  but  always  makes 
something  by  rearranging  things  already  created ; 
and  the  basic  principle  of  the  ability  to  rearrange 
things  already  created  is  the  imitative  quality 
in  the  human  mind,  and  the  history  of  in- 
dividuals that  make  up  the  group  of  dramatic 
aspirants  including  "every  man  with  a  good  voice 

58 


Wlfnt   XB   Arttns? 

and  brains,"  will  confirm  the  statement  that  there 
are  no  two  men  with  good  voices  and  brains 
whose  mental  and  physical  conditions,  either  in 
quantity  or  in  quality,  are  exactly  alike.  Conse- 
quently, the  quantity  of  the  imitative  quality  that 
enters  into  the  mind  of  each  individual,  will  not 
be  of  equal  force  in  all  men  with  good  voices  and 
brains;  just  as  the  ability  to  perceive,  compare, 
and  deduce  is  not  the  same  in  all  men  with  good 
voices  and  brains. 

Then,  since  the  power  of  imitation  in  all  men 
with  good  voices  and  brains  differs  in  quantity 
and  quality,  and  the  responsiveness  of  the  muscu- 
lar system  under  the  control  of  impressional  force 
formulating  technique,  by  the  direction  of  the 
mimetic  quality  of  the  minds  of  all  men  with  good 
voices  and  brains  is  not  the  same,  it  follows  that 
all  men  with  good  voices  and  brains  will  not  pro- 
duce the  same  technique.  Therefore,  although 
ail  men  with  good  voices  and  brains  may  act 
"Hamlet,"  yet,  because  all  men  with  good  voices 
and  brains  cannot  produce  the  same  technique, 
every  man  with  a  good  voice  and  brains  cannot 

59 


®If^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

act  "Hamlet''  up  to  the  same  standard  of  excel- 
lence. The  technique  of  an  art  is  the  formulated 
result  of  a  muscular  action,  under  the  control  of 
the  impressional  force  that  makes  the  mental 
conception.  Not  only  does  the  impressional  force, 
coming  from  exterior  circurnstances,  differ; 
but  the  muscular  system  whose  action  makes  the 
formulas  called  technique,  is  not,  in  all  men  with 
good  voices  and  brains,  equally  responsive  to  the 
impressional  force  that  makes,  at  once,  the  im- 
pression and  the  resultant,  which  when  it  is  re- 
peated for  the  purpose  of  re-presenting  the  con- 
ception, is  called  technique. 

That  some  people  misplace  technique  and  that 
many  attempt  technique  without  due  preparation, 
is  undoubtedly  a  cause  of  great  dissatisfaction  to 
the  critical;  but  to  discourage  the  study  of  the 
forms  of  voice  as  it  changes  under  the  influence 
of  environments,  is  as  injurious  to  the  science  and 
art  of  elocution  in  its  application  to  reading,  reci- 
tation, and  acting,  as  it  would  be  to  object  to  the 
technique  of  the  composer  in  arranging  a  se- 
quence of  sounds  to  be  called  music.    It  is  not  im- 

60 


at  XB  Arltng? 

probable  to  thinking  people  that  some  teachers  of 
elocution  object  to  technique  because  they  rather 
choose  to  rely  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  than 
do  the  mental  and  physical  drudgery  of  training 
themselves  in  this  kind  of  work.  But  "nothing 
can  come  of  nothing,"  and  even  genius  cannot  im- 
part its  specialty  except  by  a  deliberately  system- 
atized mental  action  expressed  in  physical  illus- 
tration. 

Genius  is  the  quickest  application  muscle  to  the 
doing  of  a  mental  conception. 

There  is  a  science  underlying  all  truthful  act- 
ing; and,  therefore,  acting  is  both  a  science  and  w/ 
an  art.  As  a  science  it  recognizes  emotion,  dis- 
sects it,  arranges  it,  and  presents  for  study  the 
factors  that  produce  it.  As  an  art  it  puts  into 
practice  the  appropriate  natural  and  artificial 
means  by  which  an  emotion  can  be  expressed. 

The  word  "emotion''  and  its  derivative  "emo- 
tional," are  constantly  in  use  to  define  plays  and 
limit  the  qualifications  of  actors ;  and  yet,  so  im- 
properly are  these  words  used  that  they  do  not 
clearly  limit  nor  define  anything.     We  hear  of 

61 


Slf^  Art  0f  Arttitg 

"emotional  plays/'  and  "situations  with  strong 
emotions/'  What  is  an  emotional  play?  What 
is  an  emotion  f  An  emotion,  as  its  derivation  sig- 
nifies (e  et  moveo),  means  "to  move  out/' 

What  is  it  that  moves  out  ?  There  is  the  ques- 
tion that  must  send  us  back  for  another  starting 
point, — the  passion. 


62 


rx^  HAT  self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  na- 
-^  ture  is  a  proposition  enunciated  and  gen- 
erally believed  by  all  civilized  peoples.  The  in- 
fliction of  a  penalty  for  the  breaking  of  a  law, 
may  be  taken  as  the  final  proof  of  the  sincere  con- 
viction of  a  people,  in  the  truth  of  the  law. 

And  all  Christian  nations  are  so  thoroughly 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  law  of  self-preser- 
vation, that  self-destruction  fixes  upon  the  suicide 
the  taint  of  insanity  as  the  penalty  for  its  in- 
fringement; and  however  slight  the  mental  aber- 
ration, however  brief  the  period  of  its  wander- 
ing, in  the  moment  of  destruction,  the  suicide  is, 
in  the  opinion  of  the  world,  insane  or  unsound  as 
to  this  law. 

63 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

And  so  it  may  be  assumed  that  mankind  gener- 
ally believes  in  the  law  of  self-preservation. 

And  now  we  ask:  Self-preservation  for 
whom  ?  We  find  the  answer  in  self-love,  that  in- 
herent principle  in  our  nature  which  is  common 
to  all  animal  life,  and  is  just  as  much  a  necessary 
part  of  our 'mentality,  as  the  leg,  or  the  arm,  or 
even  the  head  is  a  necessary  part  of  our  physical 
J  form.  Self-love  is  the  passion  of  the  mind;  a 
force  that,  being  acted  upon,  shows  itself  by  re- 
action. 

And  if  self-preservation  be  a  first  law  of  na- 
ture, then  self-love  is  the  first  motor  to  every 
human  action ;  for  it  is  the  cause  of  self-preserva- 
tion. This  is  asserted  upon  the  basis  of  human 
reason ;  and  those  who  choose  to  wander  beyond 
the  limits  of  reason,  to  seek  the  cause  in  a  su- 
perior power,  may  hang  their  arguments  upon 
any  of  the  branches  which  I  shall,  in  aiming  at 
another  point,  leave  disjointed  and  projecting. 

Self-love  is  the  primal  motor  of  the  ego  in 
man.  Through  self-love,  life  and  happiness  are 
the  first  desires  of  all  men.    It  is  common  to  speak 

64 


disparagingly  of  self-love;  but  such  disparage- 
ment results  from  ignorance. 

It  cannot  be  otherwise ;  for  self-love  begets  our 
highest  aspirations  here,  making  us  struggle  con- 
stantly for  the  approbation  of  our  fellow-men 
and  filling  us  with  fear  to  lose  the  good  opinion 
of  the  world.  Self-love  is  the  source  of  our  best 
actions,  the  basis  of  our  laws,  the  foundation  of 
our  highest  wisdom  and  for  this  reason  Christ 
said :  "Do  unto  others  as  you  would  that  others 
should  do  unto  you ;  for  in  that  you  have  the  law 
and  the  prophets" — the  rule  of  life  and  the  wis- 
dom of  the  world. 

Here  we  find  self-love  not  only  admitted  as  a 
principle  in  life,  but  taken  as  the  standard  of  jus- 
tice between  man  and  man.  And  here  a  thought : 
If  our  system  of  education  were  based  upon  a 
knowledge  of  personal  rights  as  suggested  by 
self-love,  instead  of  a  knowledge  of  arithmetic, 
in  its  relation  to  dollars  and  cents,  might  we  not 
hope  for  a  higher  standard  of  morality  than  we 
now  have? 

Self-love  is  a  powerful  factor  in  social  life,  and 

65 


®Ij^  Art  nf  Artitts 

a  governing  force  in  individual  existence.  While 
its  action  may  elevate  mentality  to  its  high- 
est flights,  it  can  also  depress  to  lowest  depths. 
It  can  distract  the  mind  and  kill  the  body.  Self- 
love  expresses  itself  by  emotions,  and  these  emo- 
tions or  outcome  of  self-love  we  call  joy,  fear, 
anger,  grief  and  many  other  names  describing 
various  phases  of  these  emotions  all  gathered 
under  the  generic  term  "passion." 

Self-love  must  not  be  confounded  with  selfish- 
ness. 

Selfishness  is  a  static  condition  of  the  ego  to 
which  everything  comes  and  from  which  nothing 
is  given  off.  It  is  a  rudimentary  force  of  the 
animal  in  man  lacking  every  quality  of  human  in- 
telligence that  serves  to  make  social  life  agree- 
able and  happiness  possible. 

Self-love  recognizes  an  ego  in  every  alter. 
Selfishness  sees  no  ego  but  self.  Selfishness  al- 
ways receives  but  never  gives.  Self-love  is  al- 
ways giving,  in  order  that  it  may  justly  receive. 


66 


lEmnltntta 

rr^  HE  subject  of  passion  and  emotions  has  been 
-■-  discussed  and  presented  for  the  considera- 
tion of  students  in  the  field  of  psychology,  by  men 
notable  as  scholars  and  analysts;  and  yet,  as  the 
matter  stands  at  the  present  time,  there  seems 
to  be  much  obscurity  as  to  the  true  meaning  and 
proper  application  of  these  words. 

Some  persons,  in  using  the  words  "passion" 
and  "emotion,"  speak  of  them  as  being  entirely 
synonymous.  Others  use  these  words  as  if  they 
always  expressed  the  same  thing  in  kind  but  dif- 
ferent in  degree ;  and  other  speakers,  after  using 
the  words  passion  and  emotion,  seek  to  make 
their  meaning  more  explicit  by  defining  them  as 

67 


Sfijf  Art  0f  Arttne 

heart  and  soul,  words  that  are  also  frequently 
used  as  interchangeable  terms.  Here  the  obscur- 
ity becomes  so  great  that  there  seems  to  be  no 
real  meaning  to  any  of  the  words. 

Actors  often  use  the  words  "emotion"  and 
"emotional"  as  if  they  were  the  very  antithesis  of 
the  word  "legitimate/'  e.  g.,  emotional  drama  and 
legitimate  drama.  And  they  describe  the  artist 
who  enacts  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth  as  a 
"legitimate  actress,"  while  the  artist  who  enacts 
the  character  of  Camille  is  called  an  "emotional 
actress."  It  requires  but  little  thought  to  know 
that  the  two  characters  above  named  are  both 
"emotional"  and  both  "legitimate."  In  the  field 
of  amusement,  everything  is  legitimate  that  en- 
tertains and  does  not  demoralize. 

Happiness  is  the  first  desire  of  every  human 
being  in  the  world.  The  agnostic  seeks  happiness 
here.  Those  who  believe  in  a  future  life,  fail- 
ing to  achieve  happiness  here,  have  a  final  hope 
for  happiness  in  a  state  of  existence  hereafter; 
and  even  the  atheistic  materialist,  whose  mind 
cannot  conceive  a  hereafter,  looks  forward  to  the 

68 


iEm0tt0ttB 

termination  of  life,  for  the  extinction  of  his  un- 
happiness,  and  so  negatively  expresses  his  de- 
sire for  happiness. 

Self-love  is  the  first  active  principle  of  life,  in 
whatever  form,  the  first  motor  to  every  human 
action.  The  passion  of  the  human  mind  is  ever 
prompting  the  ego  to  seek  happiness.  Self-love 
is  an  individual  motor  and  always  acts  independ- 
ently for  the  happiness  of  the  individual.  Un- 
like selfishness,  which  is  a  static  condition  of  self, 
self-love  is  always  active,  re-acting  upon  self 
and,  by  reflection  from  the  alter,  bringing  happi- 
ness or  unhappiness  to  the  ego.  Self-love,  being 
an  individual  force,  and  ever  constant  in  its 
action  for  happiness,  is  always  impelling  the  ego 
under  the  pressure  of  impulse  or  the  power  of 
reason,  to  seek  that  condition  of  repose  from 
physical  toil  and  mental  strife  that  man  calls  hap- 
piness. 

Self-love  is  not  only  the  sustaining  power  of 
the  ego,  but  it  is  an  indisputable  fact  in  nature 
that  self-love  is  the  first  motor  to  every  human 
action.      Upon  a  merely  superficial  view  of  this 

69 


t  Art  0f  Arttttg 

proposition,  it  would  seem  to  lead  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  there  must  be  an  absorption  or  seizure 
by  the  individual  of  every  outlying  thing  to  grat- 
ify animal  selfishness.  The  history  of  the  world 
shows  that  this  is  true,  and  that,  as  a  rule,  your 
neighbor  envies  you  all  you  possess  except  your 
diseases;  but  history  also  shows — that  is,  undis- 
puted general  history — that  the  earth  has  always 
borne  communities  of  human  beings  who,  while 
acting  under  the  influence  of  this  self-love,  have 
nevertheless  been  compelled  by  their  very  nature, 
to  obey  the  first  law  that  self-love  teaches,  viz., 
self-preservation,  which  is  a  law  of  man's  nature, 
always  prompting  to  safety,  in  order  that  the  ego 
may  enjoy  happiness.  Happiness  is  the  aim  of 
man's  life. 

Every  circumstance — every  environment — 
that  affects  self-love,  either  by  elating  or  by  de- 
pressing the  mind  must  produce  its  effect  through 
the  force  of  impression,  begetting  a  sensation  in 
the  nerve  system,  which,  being  communicated  to 
the  muscular  system,  presents  exterior  signs 
which  we  call  emotion.    It  will  thus  be  seen  that 

70 


an  emotion  is  made  up  of  three  parts,  impression, 
sensation,  and  exterior  action — expression. 

Self-love  is  the  foundation  of  the  human  here- 
ditament called  mentality.  It  may  be  called  a 
passion,  indeed  it  might  be  called  the  passion, 
since  it  is  the  first  motor  to  every  human  action. 

Apparently  lying  a  dormant  force,  even  at 
birth,  it  is  brought  into  action  only  through  im- 
pressions which  it  suffers,  and  it  expresses  its 
pleasure  or  displeasure  by  the  emotions  which  we 
name  joy,  sorrow,  love,  anger,  etc.  These  emo- 
tions are  either  elating,  and  therefore  tensive  in 
their  muscular  action,  or  they  are  depressing  and 
consequently  relaxing  to  the  muscular  system. 
Again,  each  emotion  is  a  sign  of  good  or  evil  . 
intention;  therefore,  emotions  either  are  benevo-v 
lent  or  they  are  malevolent.  For  example :  Joy 
is  a  benevolent  emotion,  tensive  in  its  action, — 
a  bold,  abrupt,  strong  outburst  of  self-love,  pro-  _ 
claiming  its  gratification  and  satisfaction  with 
exterior  circumstances — past  or  present  envi- 
ronments. 

Anger    is   malevolent    emotion,  tensive  in  its 

71 


®lj?  Art  0f  Artiitg 

action  on  the  muscular,  and  elating  to  the  mental 
— a  strong,  abrupt  explosion  of  self-love  in  op- 
position to  the  impression-making  environment 
or  circumstances  past  or  present. 

Hatred  is  chronic  or  unsatisfied  anger — male- 
volent in  its  nature,  expulsive  in  utterance,  slow 
in  movement,  orotund  and  pectoral  in  tone,  a  van- 
ishing stress,  and  with  a  general  tendency  to 
downward  inflection,  as  if  seeking  emphasis. 

Jealousy  is  a  complex  emotion,  resulting  from 
the  alternate  action  of  the  sensations  love  and 
anger.  Love  and  anger  do  not  blend  in  the  pro- 
duction of  jealousy,  but  the  separate  sensations 
crystallize  as  they  approach  each  other,  and  act 
upon  the  individual  through  the  inhering  force 
of  each  of  the  sensations.  Love  and  anger,  the 
elements  of  jealousy,  act  by  force  of  attraction 
and  repulsion,  each  for  the  moment  quite  inde- 
pendent of  the  other;  and  the  wreckage  or  de- 
struction of  the  affected  being  will  depend  for  its 
degree  upon  the  strength  of  the  sensation  love, 
the  force  of  the  anger  and  the  power  of  broad 
mental  discipline  to  suppress  their  combined  ac- 

72 


tion.  Jealousy  is  a  mental  disease,  most  appar- 
ent in  youth,  where  from  lack  of  experience  there 
is  no  dominating  judgment  to  direct  or  to  ex- 
haust the  forces  combining  against  the  desired 
happiness  of  the  being.  Jealousy  presents  itself 
in  ever-varying  ways.  In  voice  it  runs  through 
every  tone  or  quality,  and  with  all  degrees  of 
force.  At  other  times  it  is  silent  as  to  voice  and 
shows  itself  in  muscular  action,  from  the  twitch- 
ing of  the  facial  muscles  to  the  most  abrupt  and 
forceful  gestures  and  poses  of  the  body.  The  look 
askance,  the  stolen  side-wise  glance,  the  furtive, 
restless  eye,  the  contraction  of  the  corrugator  sii- 
percillii,  the  drooping  corners  of  the  mouth,  are 
signs  of  the  mental  concentration  and  depression, 
resulting  from  jealousy.  Though  love  and  anger 
may  ferment  in  silence  and  in  seeming  quiet, 
while  the  subject  has  power  to  hold  them  in 
suppression,  yet  there  comes  a  point  in  time  when 
they  cannot  be  contained ;  then  follows  abrupt  ex- 
plosive utterance,  quick  and  angular  actions  and 
such  abnormal  mental  and  physical  conditions 
that  the  subject  is  for  the  time  being  insane. 

73 


sill?  Art  0f  Artttig 

Study  of  the  action  of  an  impression  is  an  ab- 
solute necessity  if  the  artist  would  know  how  to 
imitate  the  effect  through  the  dramatic  author's 
medium,  his  words  and  sentences.  Perhaps  for 
this  purpose  a  partial  list  of  emotions  and  phases 
of  emotion  here  inserted  may  be  of  service. 
Benevolent  Emotions. 


Joy 

Gladness 

Mirth 

Merriment 

Happiness 

Cheerfulness 

Hope 

Desire 

Expectancy 

Grief 

Sorrow 

Sadness 

Pity 

Melancholy 

Regret 

Penitence 

Gratitude 

Mercy 

Love 

Friendship 

Sympathy 

Tenderness 

Admiration 

Fascination 

Infatuation 

Confidence 

Malevolent  Emotions. 

Wrath 

Hate 

Jealousy 

Envy 

Suspicion 

Irritation 

Enmity 

Pique 

Pride 

Vanity 

Anger 

Indignation 

Impatience 

Vexation 

Chagrin 

Remorse 

Shame 

Humiliation 

Suffering 

Bewilderment 

Terror 

Horror 

Fear 

Dread 

Fright 

Awe 

Wonder 

Astonishment 

Amazement 

Surprise' 

74 


f 


iEmotinnB 

Tensive  and  Elating  Emotions. 

Joy 

Gladness 

Mirth 

Merriment 

Hope 

Desire 

Expectancy 

Confidence 

Wrath 

Anger 

Indignation 

Vexation 

Impatience 

Irritation 

Hate 

Jealousy 

Envy 

Suspicion 

Pride 

Vanity 

Pique 

Terror 

Fear 

Fright 

Timidity 

Wonder 

Astonishment 

Amazement 

Surprise 

Relaxing  and  Depressing  Emotions. 

Horror 

Dread 

Awe 

Dejection 

Regret 

Remorse 

Grief 

Sorrow 

Sadness 

Melancholy 

Despair 

Despondency 

Shame 

Humiliation 

Chagrin 

Mortification 

Penitence 

Contrition 

Restive  Emotions. 

Love 

Mercy 

Happiness 

Gratitude 

Friendship 

Tenderness 

Cheerfulness 

Pity 
Sympathy 

Compassion 

Qualifying  Words. 

Rapture 

Fervor 

Buoyancy 

Ecstasy 

Enthusiasm 

Exhilaration 

Rage 

Fury 

Violent 

75 


ailj?  Art  0f  Arttng 

It  is  not  here  assumed  that  this  is  a  complete 
list  of  the  words  in  our  language  which  name 
emotions  or  phases  of  emotions,  but  that  con- 
sideration by  the  reader  of  these  few  words  will 
help  to  better  understand  the  art  of  acting. 

Of  all  the  emotions  that  sway  the  heart  or 
warp  the  judgment  of  men  and  women,  none  is 
more  potent  than  the  emotion  called  "love.'* 
Love  has  been  the  theme  of  song  and  story  since 
men  could  communicate  their  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. It  has  been  the  prime  mover  in  every  so- 
cial change  and  is  the  chief  projector  and  sup- 
porter of  our  social  life. 

What  is  love  and  whence  comes  it? 

What  is  that  mental  effect  which  is  to  mind 
as  is  the  perfume  of  the  rose  to  the  tree  that 
bears  it?    Its  highest  development. 

Whatever  may  be  the  final  scheme  in  the  indi- 
viduation of  man  and  woman,  we  are  forced  to 
regard  their  individual  mentality  as  only  parts  of 
a  creation  whose  entity  must  come  from  the 
union  of  the  parts.  Self-love  is  equally  strong  in 
man  and  woman,  and  is  constantly  striving  in 

76 


each  to  perpetuate  the  ego.  This  restless  long- 
ing proves  the  imperfection  of  the  individual. 
Something  is  wanting — repose. 

And  the  outcome  of  self-love  seeking  rest  by 
the  confiding  mental  associations  of  man  and 
woman  is  the  emotion  that  we  call  "love." 

Love  begets  the  entity  of  man.  And  the  high- 
est happiness  that  the  ego  can  know  is  when  two 
self-loves  so  perfectly  conjoin  that  love  controls 
the  two  as  one. 

Love  is  always  aggressive,  leveling  in  its  na- 
ture and  unlimited  in  force.  It  may  be  trained 
and  led  by  social  laws ;  but,  when  society  seeks  to 
check  its  course,  love  mocks  at  precedent  and  rule, 
laughs  at  bolts  and  bars  and  bids  defiance  even  to 
death  itself;  yet  this  emotion,  so  powerful,  is  al- 
ways soft,  tender  and  persuasive  in  expression. 
How  beautifully  and  how  truly  has  that  great 
linguist  of  the  emotions,  Shakespeare,  described 
the  vocal  expression  of  this  emotion  is : 

"How   silver   sweet   sound   lovers'   tongues  by 

night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears." 

11 


®If?  Art  0f  Arttng 

In  those  two  lines  what  a  lesson  for  actors; 
and  yet  in  the  entire  catalogue  of  passion,  there 
is  perhaps  no  emotion  more  falsely  re-presented 
on  the  stage  than  the  emotion — love. 

In  many  instances,  the  actor,  possessing  a  full, 
orotund  quality  of  voice,  and  seeking  approba- 
tion for  personal  qualities,  rather  than  for  artistic 
merit,  belies  the  emotion  by  the  use  of  declama- 
tory force,  making  it  bravado  instead  of  an  ex- 
pression of  supplication  and  persuasion.  Let  the 
dramatic  artist  remember  that  we  sing  for  sound, 
but  we  should  talk  for  sense. 

So  strong  are  the  habits  of  tradition  in  the 
theatre,  that  the  monotonous  and  rhythmical  ef- 
fect heard  in  reading  on  the  stage  undoubtedly 
comes  to  us  from  the  earliest  times  of  plays  in 
England,  when  the  monks  used  to  chant  the  Mys- 
teries and  Miracles.  But  the  monotony  in  qual- 
ity of  voice,  and  sameness  of  inflection,  by  reason 
of  the  constant  recurrence  of  these  factors  at  cer- 
tain given  intervals  of  time,  are  not  always  the 
signs  of  ignorance  in  the  art  of  acting.  They 
are  sometimes  the  result  of  an  insuppressible  de- 

78 


sire  in  the  ego  of  the  artist  that  delights  in  the 
musical  effect  of  swelling  rhythmical  tones. 

This  defect  is  commonly  described  as  being  in 
love  with  one's  own  voice.  But  there  is  still  an- 
other cause  for  the  habit  of  impinging  sound  on 
sound.  This  form  of  utterance  becomes  an  as- 
sistant to  memory.  The  abrupt  pause — the  en- 
tire cessation  of  sound — and  change  of  inflections 
make  a  chasm  in  the  action,  over  which  the 
mind  will  not  always  successfully  leap  to  the  next 
word.  Clever  artists  fill  up  the  accident  to  mem- 
ory with  pantomime;  others  bridge  the  space 
with  tones  and  inflections ;  novices  generally  fill 
up  these  spaces  or  pauses,  made  by  the  slips  of 
memory,  with  the  repetition  of  words  already 
spoken. 

Anything  for  sound !  Let  the  student  remem- 
ber that  it  is  not  sound  sense  to  lose  sense  in 
sotmd.  By  this  musical  trick  in  the  voice,  mem- 
ory catches  on  and  the  "stick''  is  avoided. 

There  is  another  effect  in  speaking,  produced 
by  the  application  of  force  to  the  middle  of  the 
sound — a  kind  of    crescendo  and    diminuendo 

>       79 


iHtit  Art  0f  Arttng 

movement  of  the  voice,  which  being  musical  in  its 
nature  has  a  soothing,  quieting  influence  on  the 
auditor. 

We  hear  this  effect  of  the  voice  in  all  themes 
of  tenderness — sentiments  of  love  and  friendship. 
With  light  force  it  prevails  in  the  language  of 
melancholy,  and  awakens  sympathy  in  the  tones 
of  regret.  And  even  when  force  or  loudness  of 
voice  is  applied  to  the  words,  this  form  of  stress 
has  the  power  to  prevent  the  mind  of  the  auditor 
from  dwelling  on  the  facts  in  a  statement  by  im- 
pressing the  hearer  with  a  conception  of  intense 
feeling  on  the  part  of  the  speaker,  which  concep- 
tion begets  feeling  in  the  listener,  sometimes 
overwhelming  the  judgment.  The  mind  loses 
its  power  of  comparison  and  the  auditor  often  re- 
sponds in  an  uncontrolled  outburst  of  feeling  in 
harmony  with  the  speaker. 

This  crescendo  and  diminuendo  form  of  force 
being  musical  in  its  nature,  appeals  to  feeling. 
And  where  the  speaker  is  gifted  with  a  good  flow 
of  language,  a  good  voice  and  an  emotional  na- 
ture, his  oratory,  to  nervous,  sensitive  people,  be- 

80 


comes  quite  overpowering.  The  extreme  of  the 
effect  of  loudness  and  this  musical  stress  is  often 
seen  in  camp-meeting  oratory,  where  both  men 
and  women  are  sometimes  thrown  into  spasms, 
and  physically  prostrated  by  its  power.  These 
factors  in  expression  should  have  no  place  in 
didactic  matter  where  the  appeal  is  to  mental 
equilibrium  only. 

Every  word  in  a  dramatic  composition  is  the 
sign  of  an  idea,  or  something  relative  to  an 
idea;  and  if  it  be  true  that  we  can  and  do 
analyze  a  written  sentence  for  the  purpose  of 
arriving  at  a  correct  conclusion  as  to  its  meaning, 
do  we  not  thereby  admit  that  the  sentence,  with 
its  principal  and  subordinate  clauses,  is  only  a 
means  of  conveyance,  by  a  rational  process,  of 
the  emotions  which  the  writer  would  record,  of 
their  kind,  and  in  their  place?  If  we  make  this 
analysis  by  a  constant  reference  to  our  stored  up 
memories  of  the  laws  that  govern  the  construc- 
tion of  the  written  language,  then  does  it  not  fol- 
low, as  probable  to  thinking,  that  if  one's  memory 
be  filled  with  the  laws  that  govern  the  movements 

81 


ailf^  Art  0f  Artittg 

of  an  emotion,  that  by  placing  the  several  factors 
of  an  emotion  in  their  proper  relation  to  each 
other,  we  shall  be  able  to  re-present  the  emotional 
part  of  the  composition,  if  our  logical  conclusion 
be  correct? 

Every  sound  that  we  make  in  expressing 
thought  and  feeling  must  have  utterance,  quality 
of  voice,  force,  stress,  time,  inflections,  pose  and* 
gesture, — factors  of  expression  that  present 
themselves  so  abundantly  on  every  hand  that  we 
really  never  know  their  true  value,  until  we 
attempt  to  invigorate  the  inanimate  signs  by 
which  the  author  has  recorded  his  mental  pic- 
tures. 


82 


fl^ftttttt0tt0    0f  lift    ^ttiiniqnt    nf 

TN  defining  the  art  of  acting,  the  phrase,  "by 
•^  the  just  expression  of  artificial  and  natural 
language,"  is  used. 

The  word  "just"  may  be  taken  upon  its  ordi- 
nary interpretation  as  meaning  "correct," 
"true;"  while  the  word  "expression"  in  its  origi- 
nal sense  means  "to  send  out"  or  "to  push  out." 
Thus,  we  find  that  the  just  expression  of  an  emo- 
tion means  to  enunciate,  to  utter  the  artificial  lan- 
guage, so  harmoniously  blended  with  the  natural 
language  as  to  present  to  the  mind  a  true  physi- 
cal picture  of  the  emotion. 

What  is  natural  language,  and  what  is  arti- 
ficial language? 

Natural  language  is  made  up  of  the  tones  of 

83 


®lf?  Art  0f  Arttng 

the  voice  with  all  the  variations  of  modes  of  ut- 
terance, qualities  of  voice,  force,  stress,  inflec- 
tions and  time,  together  with  the  gesticulations 
and  positions  of  the  body.  Artificial  language 
is  made  up  of  the  words  that  we  speak. 

We  call  the  tones  of  the  voice,  the  gesticulations 
and  positions  of  the  body,  natural  language,  be- 
cause all  people  of  whatever  nation  understand, 
without  special  instruction,  the  tones  of  the  voice 
and  the  actions  of  the  body. 

For  instance,  an  American  would  readily  un- 
derstand the  groan,  or  the  laugh,  of  a  Chinaman, 
although  he  might  not  understand  a  word  of  the 
written  Chinese  tongue.  Written  language  is 
clearly  artificial,  because  it  is  made.  We  must 
study  it  and  agree  as  to  what  it  shall  mean.  We 
are  constantly  manufacturing  words  in  the  Eng- 
lish language.  It  is  not  a  great  many  years 
since  the  word  "telegram''  was  made  and  pre- 
sented, in  our  vocabulary.  Previously  to  1853, 
we  used  to  talk  of  "a  telegraph  despatch,"  but  the 
phrase  was  too  long  for  the  rapid  movement  of 
American  life,  and  so,  as  soon  as  we  could  agree 

84 


irfittttf0ttH 

upon  it,  the  phrase  gave  way  to  the  word;  and 
after  this  manner  words  have  been  made  and 
multiplied  until  our  language  has  grown  so  rich 
that  almost  every  sensation  and  thought  may  be 
described  without  a  single  movement,  except  the 
movements  of  the  vocal  and  articulating  organs. 

That  words  are  artificial,  and  may  mean  any- 
thing by  agreement,  will  perhaps  be  clearly  shown 
if  we  write  the  word  "pain"  on  the  blackboard 
and  ask  a  Frenchman  and  an  American  to  inter- 
pret it.  The  Frenchman  will  tell  us  that  it  means 
"bread,"  while  the  American  will  tell  us  that  it 
means  "physical  distress."  These  are  two  very 
opposite  meanings,  but  each  of  these  nations  has 
agreed  upon  the  meaning;  and  so  the  written 
word  "pain"  presents  to  the  mind  of  each  na- 
tionality whatever  the  people  of  that  nation  have 
agreed  upon. 

Words  as  we  write  them,  are  made  up  of  ele- 
mentary characters,  and  as  we  speak  them,  they 
are  rnade  up  of  elementary  sounds.  It  is  gener- 
ally agreed  that  the  elementary  characters  of  the 
English  language  are  twenty-six  in  number ;  but 

85 


tSkt  Art  0f  Artitt3 

the  agreement  upon  the  number  of  elementary 
sounds  is  not  so  harmonious.  Some  writers  on 
this  subject  have  asserted  that  there  are  forty-six, 
others  forty-four,  while  others  have  contended 
that  there  are  but  forty-two  elementary  sounds; 
and  some  of  these  are  compound,  resolvable  into 
a  lesser  number  of  simple  sounds. 

Even  if  we  admit  the  lowest  number,  it  will  be 
largely  in  excess  of  the  number  of  elementary 
characters  used  in  writing  the  language.  This 
scarcity  of  characters  for  the  presentation  of 
sounds,  makes  one  of  the  greatest  difficulties  that 
the  stranger  has  to  overcome,  in  studying  our 
language;  and  it  reduces  the  perfect  speakers  to 
a  small  percentage  among  our  own  people.  The 
French  readers  find  in  the  body  of  whatever  book 
or  paper  they  read,  signs  placed  over  the  charac- 
ters that  give  the  exact  sound  to  each  form,  but 
we  have  no  such  signs,  and  one  character  must 
stand  for  one,  two  and  even  four  different 
sounds  as  thus :  a  in  an,  art,  all,  ale.  This  state 
of  things  is  very  perplexing  to  those  foreigners 
who  seek  to  know  our  language.     However,  this 

86 


is  a  matter  for  the  philologist,  and  as  I  purpose 
to  write  only  of  the  art  of  acting,  I  shall  confine 
myself  to  the  necessities  of  that  art  in  using  the. 
sounds  as  we  find  them,  instead  of  discussing 
the  question,  why  are  they  so  obscurely  charac- 
terized ? 

Since  in  the  art  of  acting  we  must  speak,  we 
ought  to  know  what  we  speak,  and  how  to  speak 

The  basis  of  the  English  language,  in  speak-, 
ing,  is  the  elementary  sounds. 

I  am  of  the  opinion  that  there  are  but  forty- 
two;  and  even  some  of  these  are  compounds,  or 
partial  compounds  of  a  lesser  number  of  single 
sounds.  As,  for  example,  the  sound  made  in 
pronouncing  the  long  or  alphabetical  i,  is  com- 
posed of  the  sound  of  a,  as  we  hear  it  in  father, 
and  the  long  sound  of  e.  And  the  sound  made 
in  pronouncing  the  alphabetical  a  is  made  up  of 
a  sound  that  is  only  found  in  itself,  and  the  long 
or  alphabetical  sound  of  e. 

These  forty-two  elementary  sounds  may  be  di- 
vided into  three  classes,  and  so  named  as  to  define 
their  nature,  as 

87 


®ij^  Art  0f  Arttns 


Tonic. 

a  as  in  ale 
a  as  in  arm 
a  as  in  all 
«  as  in  and 
e  as  in  eve 
e  as  in  end 
i  as  in  ice 
i  as  in  fm/^ 
o  as  in  o/a? 
o  as  in  move 

0  as  in  on 

it  as  in  tune 
u  as  in  w/> 
ti  as  in  /w// 
ow  as  in  out 

01  as  in  oil 


SUBTONIC. 

b  as  in  hahe 
d  as  in  did 
g  as  in  ^a^ 
j  as  in  yo3; 
z/  as  in  vile 
tJi  as  in  then 
2  as  in  zone 
z  as  in  a^wr^ 
/  as  in  lull 
m  as  in  mar 
n  as  in  wo^ 
r  as  in  /ar 
r  as  in  run 
ng  as  in  sing 
ze;  as  in  well 


Atonic. 
p  as  in  pipe 
t  as  in  tent 
^  as  in  kite 
ch  as  in  child 
f  as  in  fate 
th  as  in.  think 
s  as  in  ^m 
sh  as  in  ^/i^ 
/i  as  in  hat 
wh  as  in  what 


y  as  in  yet 

There  are  sixteen  tonic,  sixteen  subtonic,  and 
ten  atonic  elementary  sounds. 

The  tonic  elements  are  those  sounds  that  make 
up  the  round  full  form  of  our  language  when  we 
speak.  By  the  tonic  elements  we  present  and 
sustain  the  different  qualities  of  voice,  the  force, 

68 


the  stress,  the  inflections,  and  the  time  of  move- 
ment in  speaking.  The  subtonics  assist  the  ton- 
ics in  supporting  or  carrying  these  parts  of  ex- 
pression, while,  together  with  the  atonic  elements, 
they  serve  to  cut  up  and  separate  the  tonic  ele- 
ments into  words  and  syllables.  The  base  of 
every  syllable  in  the  English  language  must  be  a 
tonic  element.  Although  there  are  but  sixteen 
of  these  tonics  to  give  variety  of  tone  to  the  voice, 
yet  quite  one- fourth  (twenty-five  per  cent.)  of 
the  fullness  and  boldness  of  our  language  is 
thrown  away  by  careless  speakers  in  substituting 
the  sound  of  u  in  up  for  the  five  sounds  a  a  a  o 

u 

and  e  in  the  words  was,  for,  and,  of,  and 
all  words  terminating  in  ent  and  ment;  eg., 
patience,  government.  This  is  a  very  large 
percentage  of  sound  thrown  away  when  we  re- 
member that  men  do  business  and  grow  rich  upon 
one-eighth  of  one  per  cent.  To  one  who  de- 
sires to  make  clearly  defined  vocal  pictures,  the 
study  of  the  tonic  elements  of  our  language  is  of 
very  great  importance. 

As  separatives  and  articulators,  the  subtonics 

89 


SIj^  Art  nf  Artttig 

and  atonies  are  deserving  of  very  nice  attention 
in  the  study  of  oratory;  but  to  the  actor  these 
elements  become  especially  interesting,  and  a 
knowledge  of  their  powers  peculiarly  valuable. 
It  is  through  this  knowledge  that  the  student 
may  at  once  recognize  the  transposition  of  ele- 
mentary sounds  that  foreigners  make  in  their  ef- 
forts to  pronounce  the  English  language;  and 
such  knowledge  must  certainly  be  a  very  desir- 
able acquisition  to  the  dramatic  artist  since  in 
his  professional  capacity  he  is  frequently  called 
upon  to  give  imitations  of  broken  English  in  the 
characterization  of  foreigners.  However  good 
the  acting  might  be  in  certain  other  respects,  we 
could  not  recognize  the  Irishman  without  those 
transpositions  that  make  his  brogue,  nor  the 
Frenchman  without  his  transpositions  and  nasal 
effect  in  voice,  nor  the  German  without  his  trans- 
positions and  guttural  sounds.  And  with  all  due 
respect,  I  say  to  those  distinguished  foreigners, 
who  have  been  seen  on  the  American  stage  and 
much  admired  by  many,  that  the  art  of  acting 
cannot  be  perfect  while  the  articulation  and  the 

90 


pronunciation  of  the  language  are  imperfect;  foi 
the  audience  will  always  desire  to  know  the  cause 
of  action;  and  this  they  cannot  know  unless  the 
speaking  as  well  as  the  gesticulation  and  posi- 
tions be  artistic.  No  speaking  can  be  truly  artis- 
tic  without  precision  in  articulation  and  correct- 
ness in  pronunciation.  Correct  pronunciation  is 
articulating  the  sounds  properly  and  accenting 
the  syllables  of  a  word  according  to  an  accepted 
dictionary. 

Articulation  and  pronunciation  are  but  the 
necessary  mechanism  of  enunciation  or  utterance, 
the  first  factor  of  expression,  by  which  the  words, 
the  signs  of  an  idea,  may  be  intelligently  pre- 
sented to  the  sense  of  hearing.  Any  one  with 
properly  formed  lips,  teeth,  tongue  and  palate 
may  articulate  precisely,  and,  with  memory,  may 
always  pronounce  correctly. 

To  neglect  articulation  and  pronunciation  is  to 
throw  away  two  powerful  assistants  to  the  dra- 
matic art ;  for,  with  perfection  in  articulation,  the 
sounds,  by  the  muscular  action  of  the  lips  and 
tongue,  are  compacted  and  driven  through  the 

91 


®IH>  Art  0f  Arting 

auditorium  of  a  theatre  to  strike  the  auricular 
nerve  of  the  auditor  with  a  proper  effect,  like  a 
bullet  sent  to  the  bull's-eye  of  a  target  from  the 
muzzle  of  a  gun;  while  sounds  projected  care- 
lessly may  be  likened  to  a  ball  of  sawdust  that  by 
atmospheric  resistance  is  exploded  and  scattered, 
never  reaching  the  object  at  which  it  was  aimed. 

By  reason  of  the  neglect  of  this  simple  part  of 
the  art  of  acting,  we  hear  people,  even  in  the  mid- 
dle distance  of  the  auditorium  of  a  theatre  in- 
quiring of  a  neighbor,  with  an  apology  for  the 
intrusion, — "What  did  he  say?  I  didn't  hear 
him."  Of  course,  the  inquirer  did  hear  but  did 
not  understand  because  of  the  speaker's  imperfect 
articulation. 

A  few  minutes  of  practice  each  day,  in  the 
analysis  of  words,  that  is,  resolving  them  into 
their  elementary  sounds,  and  doing  them  with 
the  organs  of  articulation,  will  in  a  short  time 
produce  most  gratifying  results  to  the  artist  and 
to  his  auditors.  The  artist  may  find  excellent 
practice  in  analyzing  the  second  person  singular 
of  the  indicative  mood,  present  and  past  tense,  of, 

92 


iFftnittntiB 

any  verb  in  our  language;  e.  g.,  "Thou  trou-brst." 
'Thou  trou-brdst/'  "Thou  charm^st/'  "Thou 
charm'dst/' 

Correct  pronunciation  means  simply  the  put- 
ting together  of  the  elementary  sounds  into  syl- 
lables and  words  and  accenting  the  syllable  of  a 
word  according  to  the  best  usage  of  the  language. 

In  all  cultivated  languages  there  are  standard 
dictionaries  for  the  study  of  the  history,  the 
meaning,  accentuation  and  euphqny  of  words. 

It  is  true  that  the  lexicographers  differ  about 
the  meaning,  the  elementary  sounds,  and  the  ac- 
cent of  words;  and  the  actor  should  therefore, 
and  because  of  his  position  before  the  public,  se- 
lect for  his  authority  a  dictionary  that  gives  the 
fullest  history  and  the  most  perfect  euphony  to 
the  words.  The  actor  should,  in  pronunciation, 
be  a  good  authority  and  a  satisfactory  reference 
for  the  patrons  of  his  art.  To  be  ignorant  of  a 
sufficient  authority  upon  the  question  of  a  dis- 
puted word,  is  unworthy  a  true  dramatic  artist. 


93 


T)  Y  the  use  of  the  word  "expression,"  in  defin- 
■"^  ing  the  art  of  acting,  we  understand  a  re- 
sult arising  from  combining  all  the  elementary 
principles  of  artificial  and  natural  language,  and 
their  presentation  or  sending  out,  for  an  effect, 
which  effect  should  be  a  true,  visible  and  auricu- 
lar picture  of  the  author's  mental  conceptions. 

Articulation  and  pronunciation  are  merely  the 
mechanism  of  expression,  the  absolutely  neces- 
sary machinery  by  which  the  thoughts  and  sen- 
sations of  the  mind  are  conveyed  to  the  sense  of 
hearing.  The  more  perfect  this  machinery,  the 
more  certain  the  effect  of  the  emotion.  But 
whether  it  be  the  rage  of  anger  or  of  grief,  the 
shout  of  joy,  the  murmur  of  happiness,  the  wail 

i 

94 


of  despair,  or  the  merriment  of  laughter — what- 
ever the  emotion  or  the  phase  of  emotion — it  must 
be  recognized  through  the  factors  of  expression; 
and  however  great  or  small  the  dissimilarity  in 
emotions,  the  difference  in  expression  always  re- 
sults from  a  transposition  of  the  modes  of  utter- 
ance, the  qualities  of  the  voice,  the  force  of  the 
voice,  the  stress,  the  time,  and  the  inflections  of 
the  voice,  just  as  the  forms  of  grammar  and  the 
figures  of  rhetoric  result  from  the  position  and 
transposition  of  words  and  phrases  in  a  sentence. 
Grammar,  rhetoric  and  logic  are  intellectual  arts ; 
so  is  acting  an  intellectual  art;  but,  while  in  the 
study  of  the  first  three  arts  named,  we  are  to  con- 
sider only  the  rational  processes,  in  acting  we  are 
to  study  feeling — that  is,  sensation  as  it  appears 
by  the  various  emotions. 

Through  the  science  of  grammar,  rhetoric  and 
logic,  we  learn  from  words  the  true  conceptions 
of  the  author;  through  the  science  of  emotions 
we  vitalize  those  conceptions;  and  by  the  art  of 
acting  we  re-present  them  in  dramatic  charac- 
ters. 

95 


T)Y  utterance  we  understand  merely  the  mode 
-^^  of  sending  out  the  sounds  made  by  the  or- 
gans of  speech. 

There  are  seven  modes  of  utterance.  The  ef- 
fusive, the  expulsive,  the  explosive,  the  sighing, 
the  sobbing,  the  panting  and  the  gasping. 

This  factor  of  expression,  mode  of  utterance,  is 
heard  on  all  sides  of  us,  and  in  some  of  the  above 
forms,  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night;  so  that 
one  needs  to  have  but  small  powers  of  observation 
to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  it;  and,  with  a  Httle 
daily  practice,  one  may  make  the  imitation  quite 
in  perfection. 

Each  mode  of  utterance  has  its  peculiar  dra- 
matic language ;  that  is,  as  a  factor  in  expression 
it  has  its  own  peculiar  power. 

96 


TSitttv^ntt 

Effusive  utterance  is  the  language  of  repose. 
It  is  the  result  of  a  quiet,  undisturbed  condition  of 
the  mind,  and  is,  in  short,  voice  produced  by 
the  vocalization  of  our  normal  breathing.  It  is 
pouring  out  sound.  Therefore,  this  mode  of  ut- 
terance is  applicable,  in  acting,  to  all  those  pass- 
ages, in  dramatic  composition,  that  convey  the 
idea  of  physical  and  mental  repose. 

Expulsive  utterance  is  the  language  of  sus- 
tained mental  activity — that  degree  of  mental 
force  that  sets  the  muscular  system  to  work  com- 
pressing the  air  in  the  lungs  and  driving  it  out 
with  a  louder  sound — a  more  determined  effort 
to  be  heard. 

In  acting,  the  expulsive  mode  of  utterance  ap- 
plies to  all  sustained,  didactic,  argumentative  pas- 
sages, and  descriptive  matter,  whether  moderate 
or  declamatory  in  force. 

Explosive  utterance  results  from  sudden  men- 
tal impressions  producing  abrupt  muscular  ac- 
tion. It  is,  therefore,  the  language  of  everything 
impulsive,  and  in  acting  applies  to  exclamations 
of  all  kinds,  whatever  the  emotion  seeking  rec- 

97 


Uiift  Art  0f  Arltttg 

ognition.  The  shout  of  joy,  the  shriek  of  terror, 
the  outburst  of  laughter,  gladness  and  mirth, 
though  differing  in  force,  are  all  explosive  in 
utterance;  and  even  argument,  though  didactic 
in  its  nature,  becomes  explosive  in  utterance  when 
it  assumes  the  dogmatic  form.  The  dogmatic 
speaker  is  always  impulsive  and  his  utterance  be- 
comes a  series  of  explosions,  as  if  he  were  shoot- 
ing each  word  at  his  auditors. 

The  sighing  utterance  is  the  language  of  men- 
tal distress,  and  is  the  outcome  of  a  large,  quick, 
though  not  abrupt,  inhalation,  and  prolonged  ex- 
halation in  the  expulsive  mode.  The  sigh  tells  of 
muscular  suppression  through  long  continued 
mental  action.  It  is  always  dramatic,  for  it  indi- 
cates, at  the  moment,  the  resumption  of  the  physi- 
cal activity.  The  sigh  in  dramatic  composition 
is  generally  signified  by  the  words  "Ah!"  or 
"Oh!"  sometimes  by  "O!"  and  "Ah,  ha!"  The 
well-known  sigh  in  the  celebrated  Sleep-walking 
Scene,  in  "Macbeth,"  is  written  with  three  con- 
secutive "O's,"  which  a  celebrated  foreign 
actress,  because  of  her  ignorance  of  the  English 

98 


T&tUxnntt 

language,  delivered  as  if  they  were  three  consecu- 
tive sighs — although  the  attendant  immediately 
says,  "What  a  sigh  was  there !"  As  well  might 
we  assume,  whenever  we  meet  with  the  three 
forms  "ha,  ha,  ha,"  so  common  in  dramatic 
writing,  that  they  mean  three  consecutive  laughs. 

Sobbing  utterance  is  the  language  of  mental 
distress  in  a  greater  degree  than  is  expressed  by 
the  sigh.  The  sob  generally  terminates  a  long 
strain  of  weeping.  It  shows  the  inability  of  the 
mind  to  control  the  physique.  It  is  made  by  a 
spasmodic  inhalation  and  an  expulsive  exhalation 
of  the  breath.  The  absence  of  this  factor  of  ex- 
pression in  imitating  the  subsidence  of  an  over- 
whelming outburst  of  grief,  destroys  the  truth- 
fulness of  the  representation,  and  shows  the  lack 
of  study  in  the  would-be  artist.  The  opportuni- 
ties for  observation  are  almost  as  common  as  are 
the  chances  for  studying  the  sigh,  for  the  sob  fre- 
quently remains  as  the  language  of  mental  dis- 
tress hours  after  the  cause  of  the  outburst  has 
passed  away. 

The  lack  of  this  very  simple  part  in  terminat- 

99 


®if^  Art  0f  Arttng 

ing  Juliet's  scene  with  the  Nurse,  wherein  Juliet 
learns  of  the  banishment  of  Romeo,  as  the  conclu- 
sion of  a  heartrending  grief,  generally  exposes 
the  actress  to  the  criticism  that  she  is  only  play- 
ing that  she  is  acting. 

Panting  utterance  results  from  any  unusual 
and  violent  exercise,  as  fast  walking,  jumping 
and  running.  The  breathing  is  made  up  of  short, 
quick  inhalations  with  rapid  expulsions.  The  ac- 
tion of  the  abdominal,  intercostal  and  pectoral 
muscles  is  abnormal  both  in  tension  and  in  relaxa- 
tion, indicating  a  larger  consumption  of  the  vital- 
izing principle  of  the  air  than  can  be  taken  in  by 
the  ordinary  sustained  breathing.  Therefore,  the 
panting  utterance  is  the  language  of  physical  dis- 
tress. Panting  utterance  projects  a  sentence  brok- 
en into  phrases  disjoined  in  sense;  and  when  the 
panting  is  very  violent,  it  utters  merely  the  words, 
with  sometimes  long  pauses  between. 

The  defect  in  this  kind  of  utterance  on  the 
stage  is,  that  the  physical  distress  generally  dis- 
appears too  quickly,  and  so  destroys,  almost  in  its 
inception,  the  illusion  which  a  longer  continued 

100 


TUtUvnntt 

action  might  perfect.  A  very  fair  specimen  of 
this  kind  of  utterance  may  be  found  in  the  lines  of 
the  Nurse  in  the  scene  with  Juliet,  when,  to  the 
old  woman  hastening  home  with  news  of  Romeo, 
Juliet  exclaims :  "O  honey  nurse,  what  news  ?" 
The  Nurse  talks  of  her  weariness,  her  aching 
bones,  and  the  jaunt  she  has  had,  and  when  Juliet 
further  implores  her  with  "Good,  good  nurse, 
speak !"  the  Nurse  replies : 

"Jesu,  what  haste!  can  you — not  stay — 
awhile?  Do  you — not  see — that  I — am — out  of 
—breath?"* 

Panting  utterance  is  an  important  factor  in  the 
representation  of  great  fatigue  in  wrestling,  box- 
ing and  fencing  on  the  stage,  and,  quite  as  much 
as  any  other  part  of  expression,  helps  the  audience 
to  appreciate  the  dramatic  situation.  This  mode 
of  utterance  is  very  simple  in  form  and  easy  of 
acquisition.  By  a  little  practice  in  doing  and 
judgment  in  the  application,  another  element  may 
be  added  to  beautify  the  art. 

Gasping  utterance  is  made  by  a  long,  slow  and 


*Also  the  Messenger  in  "Macbeth,"  Act  V.,  Scene  V. 

101 


iSlit  Art  0f  Arttns 

continuously  weakening  exhalation  and  a  short, 
abrupt  inhalation.  It  is  the  language  of  physical 
exhaustion.  It  seems  like  an  intense  muscular 
contraction  for  the  purpose  of  retaining  the 
breath,  which  the  gradual  relaxation,  through 
growing  weakness,  allows  to  escape  in  an  expul- 
sive manner  at  first,  but  which  terminates  in  mere 
effusion ;  and  then  by  an  abrupt  contraction,  as  if 
the  will  power  had  suddenly  determined  to  live  on, 
the  breath  is  snatched  back  again  at  the  very  point 
of  its  final  exit. 

The  words  and  phrases  of  a  sentence  ride  out 
upon  the  expiring  breath  with  a  general  diminu- 
tion of  force  until  the  final  cessation  of  the  cause 
by  either  recovery  or  death. 

This  mode  of  utterance  is  more  difficult  to  ac- 
quire than  either  the  "sobbing"  or  the  "panting," 
because  of  its  complex  and  unnatural  action,  and 
also  because  the  opportunities  for  observation  are 
not  so  frequent.  However,  there  are  always  op- 
portunities for  study  in  hospitals  of  any  large 
city.  This  factor  of  expression  belongs  to  nearly 
all  heroic  death  scenes  on  the  stage,  for  they  are 

102 


generally  the  result  of  violence,  forcing  a  strong 
will  to  contend  with  a  decaying  or  broken  phy- 
sique. 

Mercutio's  death  scene  furnishes  a  very  fine 
specimen  of  this  mode  of  utterance. 

Mercutio. 

Why  the  devil — came  you  between  us  ? — I  was, 
hurt  under  your  arm. 

Romeo, 

I  thought  all  for  the  best. 

Mercutio. 

Help  me  into  some  house — Benvolio — or  I 
shall  faint — a  plague  o'  both  your  houses — 
They  have  made  worm's  meat — of  me — I  have 
it — ^and  soundly,  too your  houses ! 


103 


Vnitt 


^  M^  HE  next  factor  in  expression  to  be  consid- 
•^  ered  is  Voice.  On  this  factor  a  volume 
might  be  written  without  exhausting  the  subject. 
But  as  the  cause,  development,  and  effect  of  voice 
in  dramatic  art  only  are  the  object  of  this  essay,  I 
shall  speak  of  the  voice  only  in  its  application  to 
acting. 

Every  actor  has  a  voice  of  some  kind;  either 
harsh  or  soft,  squeaking  or  musical,  orotund  or 
thin,  pectoral  or  nasal,  guttural  or  head  tone ;  and 
if  the  characters  to  be  assumed  were  each  fitted 
to  the  actor's  peculiar  quality  of  voice,  he  might 
always  seem  to  be  an  artist.  But  the  actor's  art 
is  not  only  limited,  but  sadly  belittled  when  the 
dramatist  is  compelled  to  fit  all  of  his  dramatis 
personae  to  the  natural  conditions  of  the  actor. 
This  form  of  dramatic  writing,  considered  quite 

104 


an  accomplishment  by  some  local  dramatists,  lim- 
its the  writer  and  represents  the  defects  of  the 
actor  until  His  "sameness"  grows  tiresome.  There 
may  be  money  for  the  manager  in  this  form  of 
dramatic  writing  and  acting,  but  there  is  also 
death  to  dramatic  art  in  the  line  of  impersona- 
tion and  illustration  of  the  heroic  characters  of 
Shakespeare  and  other  great  dramatists. 
The  dramatic  author's  art  is — 

"To  show  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn  her 
own  image,  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the 
time  his  form  and  pressure," 

in  words  so  arranged  as  to  present  human  emo- 
tions in  their  true  relation  and  resemblance  to  na- 
ture; and  the  actor's  art  is,  through  the  applica- 
tion of  his  intelligence  and  the  adaptability  of  his 
physique,  to  illustrate  the  works  of  the  author. 

In  the  expression  of  an  emotion,  voice  is  a 
powerful  factor ;  and  every  actor  may,  if  there  be 
no  physical  defect,  so  cultivate  his  voice  as  to  be 
able  through  its  changes,  not  only  to  re-present 
correctly  the  varying  phases  of  emotions,  but  also 
to  present  a  repertoire  of  perhaps  three  or  four 

105 


®If^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

distinct  characters  without  allowing  his  individu- 
ality to  appear. 

A  repertoire  of  four  entirely  distinct  characters 
would  indeed  be  very  remarkable.  I  do  not  re- 
member to  have  seen  any  actor  with  such  versa- 
tility. 

Voice  is  always  made  in  the  larynx  at  the  top 
of  the  trachea,  by  the  vibration  of  the  vocal  cords, 
which  cords  are  in  themselves  merely  muscles. 
Upon  the  strength  of  these  vocal  cords,  together 
with  the  firmness  and  hardness  of  the  general 
muscular  and  the  osseous  systems,  will  depend 
the  timbre — the  ringing  musical  tone  of  the  voice. 
Upon  the  tension  of  the  vocal  cords  and  the  length 
of  the  column  of  air  between  the  larynx  and  the 
mouth,  will  depend  the  inflections  of  the  voice, 
and  upon  the  place  of  principal  resonance  will  de- 
pend the  quality  of  the  voice. 

As  a  factor  in  speech,  voice  is  vocalized  breath 
conveying  thought  and  sensation. 

Now,  while  the  human  being  has  but  one  voice, 
we  have  all  observed  a  great  difference  in  the 
same  voice  under  differing  circumstances — e,  g., 

106 


t 


the  mother  will  call  her  child  to  her  with  one 
effect  of  voice,  and  command  her  servant  with 
quite  another  effect  of  voice.  A  man  will  talk  of 
the  beauty  of  the  park  near  Niagara  Falls  with 
one  effect  of  voice,  while  he  will  speak  his  admi- 
ration and  wonder  on  beholding  the  grandeur  of 
the  Falls  themselves,  with  quite  another  effect. 
These  are  phenomena  of  the  voice  so  common  that 
the  simplest  student  of  nature  must  have  observed 
them.  But  perhaps  all  have  not  asked  why  is  this 
or  that  effect?  Why  are  these  changes?  The 
answer  is  plain  and  lies  before  us  as  thus :  Voice 
is  a  result  of  muscular  action  under  mental  im- 
pressions, and  mental  impressions  are  the  result 
of  continually  changing  circumstances ;  so  that  we 
may  conclude  that  voice,  like  every  other  factor, 
in  the  expression  of  an  emotion  is  governed  by 
some  exterior  circumstance,  past  or  present. 

The  effects  of  voice  that  we  hear  in  nature  un- 
der varying  circumstances,  may  be  divided  for 
dramatic  purposes  into  three  qualities  agreeing 
with  the  place  of  principal  resonance,  as:  Head 
tone,  because  the  place  of  principal  resonance  is 

107 


JJljj  Art  0f  Artittg 

in  the  head;  Pectoral  {pectus,  the  chest),  because 
the  place  of  principal  resonance  is  in  the  chest; 
and  the  Orotund,  from  os  et  rotundum,  because 
the  place  of  principal  resonance  is  in  the  mouth. 
The  orotund  is  in  reality  a  combination  of  the 
head  tone  and  the  pectoral  quality  and  is  not 
only  the  best  vocal  exponent  of  the  dignity 
and  grandeur  of  the  human  voice,  but  it  is  largest 
in  its  compass,  and  the  most  musical  and  varied. 
It  touches  the  head  tone  and  dips  down  into  the 
pectoral.  The  true  orotund  quality,  resulting 
from  proper  cultivation  of  well  developed  vocal 
organs,  is  the  very  perfection  of  the  human  voice. 

To  know  of  these  distinctions  in  voice,  and  to 
know  how  to  make  the  several  qualities,  is  some- 
thing; but  to  the  actor  all  this  knowledge  is 
worthless,  unless  he  knows  the  dramatic  lan- 
guage of  each  of  these  qualities,  so  that,  after 
hearing  them  in  nature,  he  may  properly  apply 
them  in  speaking  the  language  of  the  dramatic 
author. 

The  Head  tone,  because  of  its  penetrating  pow- 
er, and  because  of  its  susceptibility  to  smoothness 

108 


and  softness,  is  heard,  in  nature,  in  all  of  those 
situations  where  mental  conviction  and  persua- 
sion are  aimed  at,  where  the  speaker  seeks  rather 
to  present  the  power  of  his  mentality  than  to 
overwhelm  by  his  superior  physical  force.  There- 
fore, the  head  tone  prevails  in  argumentation 
and  didactic  matter.  The  emotion  love,  and  all 
of  its  phases,  friendship,  tender  sympathy,  re- 
gret, sadness,  melancholy  and  some  phases  of  joy, 
as  gladness  and  mirth,  assume,  with  different  ut- 
terances and  varying  forces,  the  head  tone.  The 
outburst  of  anger  is  generally  in  the  head  tone, 
and  through  this  quality  of  voice  expresses  the 
weakness  of  the  speaker.  The  shriek  of  terror, 
though  it  may  terminate  in  a  broken  falsetto, 
generally  begins  in  the  head  tone. 

The  head  tone  properly  prevails  in  the  ordi- 
nary conversation  of  domestic  life — the  every 
day  local  relations ;  but  because  of  a  lack  of  action 
in  opening  the  mouth,  the  tone  is  much  perverted 
by  a  resonance  through  the  nose,  sometimes  de- 
scribed as  a  "nasal  twang;"  and  because  of  care- 
lessness in  articulation,  we  have  that  disagree- 

109 


Shr  Art  nf  Arttttg 

able  redundancy  even  in  drawing-room  dis- 
courses, "I  beg  pardon." 

An  excellent  illustration  of  the  head  tone  with 
an  explosive  utterance  may  be  made  with  the 
raillery  of  Mercutio  throughout  the  "Queen  Mab 
speech,"  except  where  the  voice  must  vary  in  tone 
to  give  the  imitation  of  strength,  as  in  tlie  last 
part  wherein  he  describes  the  soldier. 

The  Orotund  quality  is  the  vocal  representation 
of  strength,  power  and  command.  It  requires 
great  strength  to  produce  it,  and  we  find  it  eman- 
ating in  words  when  the  speaker  is  seeking  to  im- 
press others  with  his  own  strength  or  when  he  is 
describing  the  power  and  grandeur  of  nature. 
We  look  for  it  in  the  dramatic  hero,  because  we 
always  associate  heroism  with  strength.  We 
listen  for  it  in  the  shout  of  joy,  and  in  the  word  of 
command.  Without  its  aid  indignation  would 
be  changed  into  anger,  and  sublime  description 
would  become  ridiculous.  While  a  military  com- 
mand delivered  with  a  head  tone  would  be  laugh- 
able ;  the  emotion  love  presented  with  the  orotimd 
quality  becomes  a  bombastic  absurdity.     In  the 

110 


Vttxtt 

first  instance  the  strength  of  the  situation  would 

not  be  expressed;  and  in  the  second  instance  the 

sentiment  would  be  overburdened  with  volume  of 

sound.    A  good  illustration  of  the  effect  of  these 

two  qualities  of  voice  may  be  made  with  that 

brief  speech  of  Othello,    wherein    he    dismisses 

Michael  Cassio,  because  of  his  drunkenness  while 

on  guard  at  Cyprus  on  the  first  night  of  Othello's 

arrival  in  the  island. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Othello  and  Cassio 

were  very  close  friends;  for  Desdemona,  when 

suing  to  Othello  for  Cassio's  reinstatement,  says : 

"What!   Michael  Cassio, 
That  came  a-wooing  with  you;  and  so  many  a 

time. 
When  I  have  spoken  of  you  dispraisingly. 
Hath  ta'en  your  part;  to  have  so  much  to  do 
To  bring  him  in !" 

This  shows  at  least  a  very  strong  friendship, 

and    Byron    says:     "Friendship  is  love  without 

wings."     In  dismissing  this  very  dear  friend, 

Othello  says: 

".     .     .     .     Cassio,  I  love  thee, 
But  never  more  be  officer  of  mine." 

Now  if  we  were  to  read  this  entire  passage 
111 


Slljf  Art  0f  Arttng 

with  head  tone,  expulsive  utterance,  moderate 
force,  a  median  stress,  and  slow  time,  we  might 
discover  all  of  Othello's  professed  love,  but  none 
of  the  strength  nor  dignity  of  his  office;  and  if 
on  the  other  hand  we  were  to  read  it  with  an  oro- 
tund quality  throughout,  we  should  find  in  the 
voice,  power,  but  no  love.  What  then  must  we 
do  with  it?  Divide  the  sentence  into  two  parts, 
and  use  the  quality  of  voice  in  harmony  with  the 
sentiments  of  each  part. 

Impressions  come  upon  us  with  the  rapidity 
of  lightning,  and  the  sensation  will  make  changes 
with  all  the  speed  that  the  machinery  of  the  mus- 
cles will  allow.  The  actor  may  therefore  make 
variation  in  quality  in  every  phrase  or  even  on  a 
single  word  in  a  sentence,  if  the  emotion  change 
in  either  phase  or  kind. 

The  pectoral  quality  of  voice  is  less  common 
in  use  than  the  other  qualities  just  described ;  but 
it  is  not  less  natural  than  the  head  tone  and  the 
orotund. 

The  pectoral  quality  is  much  lower  in  reso- 
nance than  the  orotund,  and  seems  to  come  into 

112 


action  as  a  part  of  expression  at  that  point  where 
the  lowest  range  of  orotund  ceases  to  express 
strength.  The  pectoral  quality  has  breadth  and 
volume;  but  the  moment  that  energy  of  muscle 
is  applied  to  drive  out  the  sound,  the  Increase  of 
tension  produces  orotund,  and  immediately 
changes  the  effect.  The  pectoral  quality  is  more 
monotonous  in  its  movement  than  either  of  the 
other  qualities,  and  its  range  in  expression  is 
therefore  smaller. 

The  principal  resonance  of  the  pectoral  quality 
is  in  the  chest,  and  results  from  a  partly  re- 
laxed condition  of  the  entire  muscular  system 
under  any  impression  that  compels  the  mind  to 
recognize  the  weakness  and  dependence  of  the 
human  being  upon  some  superior  power.  It  is 
the  language  of  awe.  Every  circumstance  that 
inspires  the  human  being  with  a  profound  re- 
spect for  a  Superior  Power,  that  can  but  will  not 
destroy,  seems  to  throw  down  the  physical  force, 
and  even  in  the  quality  of  voice  declares  the 
weakness  of  man. 

Whether  we  contemplate  the  silence  and  vast- 

113 


®lj?  Art  0f  Arttng 

ness  of  the  desert,  or  wonder  at  the  volume  and 
breadth  of  the  ocean,  or  seek  to  scan  the  moun- 
tain peak  lost  in  the  shadowing  clouds,  or,  look- 
ing into  space,  behold  the  myriad  worlds  that  con- 
stitute the  universe,  the  impression  comes  upon 
the  mind  that  behind  all  of  these  phenomena, 
there  is  a  Supreme  and  Everlasting  Power;  and 
human  power  is  humbled  by  the  thought.  The 
awful  as  well  as  the  grand  and  beautiful  in  na- 
ture must  find  a  fitting  representative  in  the  qual- 
ity of  voice. 

To  one  who  justly  appreciates  the  grandeur 
and  power  of  Niagara,  how  absurd  would  seem 
the  head  tone  of  the  beholder  who  might  exclaim, 
"Oh,  how  beautiful!''  Even  the  orotund  would 
sound  inadequate,  while  exclaiming  in  its 
strength  and  boldness,  "Oh,  how  grand !"  for  we 
should  expect  with  the  next  breath  a  suggestion 
for  race-ways,  to  harness  the  mighty  cataract 
to  mill  stones  and  to  the  spindles  and  looms  of 
woolen  factories.  But  the  truly  awe-inspired 
looker-on  speaks  his  admiring  fear  with  aspirated 
pectoral  in  a  single  word  "Wonderful!" 

114 


Within  the  past  few  years  there  has  been  much 
discussion  among  the  actors  of  what  is  called  the 
"Natural  School  of  Acting" — which  simply 
means  doing  what  is  natural  to  themselves — 
about  the  proper  quality  of  voice  to  be  used  in 
representing  the  true  characteristics  of  the  Ghost 
in  "Hamlet."  It  has  been  contended  that  the 
head  tone  and  the  orotund  qualities  should  ap- 
pear in  the  voice  of  the  Ghost,  according  to  the 
emotion  to  be  expressed,  just  as  they  might  have 
appeared  in  the  natural  or  normal  condition  of 
Hamlet,  the  father,  when  he  was  King  of  Den- 
mark. 

This  may  be  a  proper  outcome  to  the  merely 
grammatical  and  logical  study  of  the  Ghost's 
speeches ;  but  for  dramatic  purposes  we  must  con- 
sider the  emotional  part  of  the  character. 

As  a  dramatic  person  in  the  play,  what  is  the 
Ghost,  and  whence  comes  he  ?  There  are  no  such 
creatures  in  nature ;  and  yet  in  the  play  the  Ghost 
exists — that  is,  he  comes  upon  the  scene  as  other 
characters  do.  We  may  find  the  likeness  of  any 
of  the  other  characters  of  this  play  in  real  life; 

115 


®lf^  Art  0f  Artittg 

but  no  where  among  the  realisms  of  nature  do  we 
find  a  ghost.  The  Ghost  is,  therefore,  supernat- 
ural— the  creature  begotten  of  an  awful  imagina- 
ation;  for  to  the  poetical  temperament,  to  the 
strongly  emotional  man  to  reach  into  the  realms 
of  the  Supreme  Power  and  fetch  thence  that 
which  the  original  creator  has  destroyed,  to  bring 
back  to  earth  the  dead,  to  revivify  a  fraction  of 
that  mentality  which  is  the  human  hereditament 
from  ages  of  circumstances,  with  their  innumer- 
able impressions,  and  to  make  that  being  do  and 
suffer  with  a  semblance  of  life,  is  a  truly  awful 
outcome  of  the  imagination.  Whatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  reality  of  the  confines  from  which 
the  Ghost  comes,  a  belief  in  the  everlasting  fires 
of  that  place  cannot  but  terrify  the  mind,  and 
thoughts  of  the  unlimited  torture  of  his  "prison- 
house"  must  horrify  the  body.  The  Ghost  is 
therefore  begotten  of  awe  and  horror. 

If  it  be  true  that  the  mind,  untrammeled  by  the 
artificial  rules  of  society,  is  constantly  seeking  to 
present  its  impressions  through  ever-varying 
qualities  of  voice  in  harmony  with  the  circum- 

116 


Vnxtt 

stance  and  the  impression,  then  it  will  follow 
that  we  cannot  accept  this  extraordinary  char- 
acter, as  speaking  with  the  ordinary  qualities 
of  voice.  The  familiar  head  tone  would  dispel  the 
awful  by  arousing  sympathy;  and  the  orotund 
quality,  as  the  vocal  representation  of  strength, 
woujd  make  the  auditor  feel  that  the  Ghost  must 
be  a  voluntary  prisoner  in  his  fiery  cell,  else  with 
such  power  he  might  escape  from  those  horrors, 
the  story  of  which  would  make  "one's  eyes  start 
from  their  spheres." 

The  Ghost  must  be  awful  and  his  story  horri- 
fying, or  the  dramatic  situation  is  lost.  If  we 
have  not  a  quality,  quantity  and  movement  of 
voice  to  impress  the  mind  of  the  auditor,  and  lead 
it  out  into  the  regions  of  the  supernatural,  then 
the  Ghost  becomes  ridiculous  by  the  contrast  of 
the  real  with  the  assumed  unreal. 

As  the  low  notes  of  the  church  organ,  vibrat- 
ing on  the  air,  thrill  the  nerves  of  sensation  and 
compel  the  mind  to  recognize  the  solemnity  of  the 
place  as  the  boundary  line  between  earth  and 
heaven,  so  does  the  pectoral  quality  of  voice  im- 

117 


SJfie  Art  0f  Arttng 

press  the  auditor  with  the  awfulness  of  that  "un- 
discovered country  from  whose  bourn"  nought 
but  the  shades  formed  of  incorporate  air  return. 

In  the  presentation  of  awe  resulting  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  powerful,  the  grand,  and 
the  sublime  in  nature,  the  pectoral  quality  is 
pure;  but  when  horror  ensues  as  the  final  result 
of  terror,  the  voice  becomes  strongly  aspirate. 
In  hatred — that  is,  chronic,  deliberate  anger — the 
pectoral  mingles  with  the  guttural, — a  quality  of 
voice  made  by  a  partial  resonance  or  vibration  of 
the  pharynx  in  imitation  of  the  low,  harsh  notes 
of  animals  that  growl,  thus  expressing  the  ani- 
mal nature  of  the  sensation. 

A  good  example  of  the  pectoral  aflPected  by 
guttural  resonance,  is  found  in  several  speeches 
of  Shylock,  when  expressing  his  hatred  for  An- 
tonio. A  particularly  strong  example  is  in  that 
speech  which  closes  out  his  terrific  scene  with 
Tubal,  when  his  hatred,  raging  for  revenge,  says : 

"Go,  Tubal,  fee  me  an  officer ;  bespeak  him  a 
fortnight  before ; — I  will  have  the  heart  of  him  if 
he  forfeit ;  for  were  he  out  of  Venice  I  can  make 
what  merchandize  I  will." 

118 


rr^  HE  term  "force/*  as  applied  to  the  art  of 
-■"  acting,  is  purely  technical,  and  is  used  to 
limit  and  define  energy  of  muscle  and  loudness  of 
voice.  There  is  an  opinion  prevailing  that  "loud- 
ness" and  "energy"  are  synonymous  terms ;  but  if 
we  reflect  that,  although  we  cannot  have  great 
loudness  without  great  energy  of  muscle,  we  can 
nevertheless  have  great  energy  of  muscle  without 
loudness,  we  may  perceive  that  the  word  "force" 
covers  something  more  than  loudness  of  voice. 
So  we  may  say  that  force  describes  the  activity 
and  strength  of  the  voice-producing  organs. 

We  cannot  divide  the  force  of  the  speaking 
voice  into  the  precise  degrees  named  in  the  sing- 
ing voice,  where  the  singer  and  the  instrument 

119 


®ij^  Art  0f  Arlittg 

must  harmonize  through  moderato,  forte,  fortis- 
simo, piano  and  pianissimo;  nor  is  it  at  all  neces- 
sary, for  speaking  is  never  done  in  concert,  ex- 
cept to  weaken  and  destroy,  while  concert  in 
music  strengthens  and  beautifies  the  effect.  Mu- 
sic seeks  its  expression  through  sound,  while 
speech  is  nothing  unless  it  conveys  the  sense  of 
each  particular  word. 

For  the  practical  purpose  of  arriving  at  the 
dramatic  language  of  force,  we  may  divide  the 
force  of  the  speaking  voice  into  five  degrees, 
which  shall  approximately  express  all  thought 
and  sensation,  as  whispering,  suppressed,  moder- 
ate, declamatory  and  impassioned.  Those  who 
have  given  no  thought  to  the  science  that  under- 
lies the  art  of  acting  are  quite  likely  to  think  these 
divisions  and  names  arbitrary;  that  the  teacher 
selects  the  word  for  naming  a  degree  of  force, 
and  then  fits  the  force  to  the  name ;  but  with  only 
a  little  observation  one  may  see  that  the  reverse 
of  this  is  true.  We  hear  the  various  degrees  of 
force  in  nature,  and  we  simply  name  them,  in  or- 
der that  we  may  bring  them  in  from  the  field  of 

120 


observation  and  apply  them  correctly  in  the  art  of 
re-presenting.  The  degree  of  force  is  entirely  dis- 
tinct from  the  quality  of  voice.  For  example, 
in  secretiveness,  or  in  ^weakness,  we  hear  the 
whisper.  Secrecy  is  the  result  of  a  mental  de- 
termination to  avoid  discovery,  and  weakness 
the  inability  to  control  purity  of  tone  in  the  voice. 
Hence,  we  say  that  the  whisper,  when  voluntary, 
is  the  language  of  secretiveness,  and  when  it  is 
involuntary,  it  is  the  language  of  weakness.  It 
requires  but  little  thought  to  see  the  truth  of  this 
statement;  and  any  intelligent  actor,  with  but 
little  study  of  the  dramatic  situation,  will  readily 
learn  the  just  application  of  this  powerful  factor 
in  expression.  Although  there  may  be  none 
of  the  loudness  that  results  from  purity  of  tone 
and  energy  of  muscle,  yet  the  energy  of  muscle 
may  be  so  great  as  to  drive  the  whisper  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  auditorium  in  either  the 
lecture  room,  the  church,  or  the  theatre.  I  think 
the  most  powerful  prayer  made  as  an  appeal  to 
the  mercy  of  Omnipotence  that  I  ever  listened 
to,  was   begun  with   the  whispering   force   and 

121 


®If?  Art  of  Arttng 

never  arose  above  suppressed  force  during  the 
entire  time  of  delivery.  It  was  the  most  truthful 
presentation  of  profound  respect  to  the  Supreme 
Power  that  I  have  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing. I  felt  that  the  speaker  was  fully  impressed 
with  the  awfulness  of  coming  into  the  presence 
of  Deity. 

Through  lack  of  this  kind  of  force  on  the  part 
of  the  attending  physician  and  gentlewoman,  the 
Sleep-walking  Scene  of  Lady  Macbeth  is  gener- 
ally destroyed.  The  horror  and  alarm  of  Lady 
Macbeth's  "To  bed,  to  bed,  there's  knocking  at 
the  gate,"  cannot  be  expressed  without  the 
whisper. 

Suppressed  Force. 

Suppressed  force  is  the  outcome  of  very  in- 
tense emotion.  Although  it  resembles  the  impas- 
sioned force,  yet  there  is  always  a  sufficient  men- 
tal control  to  prevent  the  extreme  muscular  ac- 
tion, resulting  in  tremor  of  voice,  by  the  addition 
of  which  the  suppressed  becomes  the  impassioned 
force. 

The  suppressed  force  is  made  up  of  the  whis- 

122 


per  and  whatever  quality  of  voice  the  situation 
may  call  for,  as  head  tone,  orotund,  or  pectoral. 
In  the  suppressed  force,  the  whisper  in  the  voice 
will  present  the  secretiveness  of  the  situation,  or 
the  weakness  of  the  speaker,  while  the  tone  will 
present  the  tenderness,  the  strength  or  the  horror, 
as  the  emotion  may  be.  The  suppressed  force 
with  the  head  tone,  may  be  heard  among  the 
groups  around  the  sick-bed,  around  the  bier,  at 
the  funeral  of  a  friend,  or  in  the  cemetery  where 
friends  assemble  to  pay  a  tender  respect  to  the 
dead,  and  in  the  words  of  love  and  friendship, 
when  the  situation  is  secretive.  It  is  the  pres- 
ence of  the  suppressed  force  with  the  head  tone 
that  makes  the  Balcony  Scene  of  "Romeo  and 
Juliet''  truly  dramatic,  and  it  is  the  absence  of 
this  suppression  in  the  orotund  quality  of  voice, 
with  which  many  actors  play  the  murder  scene 
between  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth,  that  entire- 
ly destroys  the  awfulness  of  the  crime — their  oro- 
tund declamation  making  it  appear  an  act  of  hero- 
ism to  be  known  and  admired  by  the  whole  world, 
rather  than  a  foul  deed  to  be  concealed  even  in 


123 


QIIH?  Art  0f  Arttng 

the  very  suppression  of  their  breath.  And  no- 
where can  we  find  a  better  situation  for  the  illus- 
tration of  the  suppressed  pectoral,  than  in  the 
closing  part  of  this  scene,  when  Macbeth,  break- 
ing under  the  influence  of  the  horror  with  which 
the  recognition  of  his  brutal,  gory  murder  fills 
him,  exclaims  as  he  is  startled  by  the  knocking  at 
the  gate,  just  after  Lady  Macbeth  has  left  him 
to  replace  the  daggei 


"How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  ?    Ha !  they  pluck  out  mine 

eyes! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand?     No;  this  my  hand  will 

rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine. 
Making  the  green  one  red." 

In  the  suppressed  force  there  is  always  combi- 
nation of  feeling  and  intelligence.  There  is  se- 
cretiveness  or  weakness  in  the  aspiration  and 
sensation  in  the  tone.  The  secretiveness  indi- 
cates, positively,  the  governing  influence  of  the 
mind,  and  weakness  does  not  close  out  the  possi- 
bility of  mental  action  as  a  controlling  power  in 
the  sensation.      Even  in  the  continued  action  of 

124 


I 


horror  we  find  mentality  seeking  relief  for  the 
embarrassment  of  the  physical  condition.  Sup- 
pressed force,  when  voluntary,  is  the  outcome  of 
the  study  of  self-control,  and  its  proper  use  al- 
ways indicates  cultivation  in  the  artist. 

Moderate  Force. 

We  find  in  nature  a  degree  of  loudness  which 
seems  always  to  appeal  to  the  intellect  only.  It 
never  seeks  to  arouse  feeling  and  is  constantly  op- 
posed to  any  display  of  sensation  by  which  men- 
tality may  lose  control  of  the  situation.  This 
may  be  called  moderate  force.  We  hear  it  in  all 
didactic  and  argumentative  matter,  where  mental 
education  is  the  object  of  the  speaker.  We  hear 
it  also  in  those  phases  of  joy  called  mirth  and 
gladness,  as  well  as  in  the  earnest  discourses  upon 
the  serious  affairs  of  life;  and  although  there  is 
sometimes  a  tendency  to  suppressed  force  and  an 
occasional  cropping  out  of  declamation  among  the 
well  disciplined  minds  of  the  clergy,  still  moderate 
force  as  a  factor  of  expression,  prevails  in  the 
solemnity  of  church  service. 

125 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

Moderate  force  with  a  head  tone,  an  expulsive 
or  explosive  utterance,  as  the  abruptness  of  the 
thought  may  sometimes  require,  will  always  hold 
the  subject  matter  down  to  a  purely  mental  ap- 
peal. The  dramatic  writer  should  not  forget  that 
the  auditor  tires,  if  held  down  for  a  long  time  with 
the  monotony  of  this  combination  of  vocal  effects. 

A  beautiful  illustration  of  this  degree  of  force 
may  be  made  with  Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players ; 
in  which  scene  he  takes  to  task  those  ranters  who 
"tear  a  passion  to  tatters.'*  Of  course,  in  Ham- 
let's illustration  he  must  himself  pass  into  decla- 
mation to  present  the  bombastic  folly  that  he  is 
criticizing;  but  the  prevailing  force  of  the  scene, 
as  the  logical  outcome  of  his  instructions  will 
prove,  is  moderate. 

Declamatory  Force. 

However  calm  and  intelligent  the  speaker  may 
be,  when  he  starts  to  present  his  propositions  as 
the  base  or  opening  of  a  continued  and  prolonged 
oration,  the  moment  that  the  mind  begins  to  re- 
ceive impressions  from  exterior  circumstances, 

126 


Ifntte 

either  through  the  effect  of  immediate  surround- 
ings, or  through  the  action  of  memory,  the  gen- 
eral muscular  system,  including  the  voice-produc- 
ing organs,  is  pulled  up  to  an  energy  that  makes  a 
loudness  of  voice  called  declamatory  force. 

Like  the  suppressed  force,  it  has  intelligence 
and  feeling ;  but  declamation  differs  from  suppres- 
sion in  being  always  strong  as  well  as  open  and 
frank.  There  is  no  weakness  to  present,  and  no 
thought  to  conceal.  The  loudness  of  the  voice 
and  purity  of  tone  seem  to  boast  of  the  strength  of 
the  speaker,  and  the  muscular  energy  seems  to 
reach  out  as  if  to  grasp  and  hold  at  once  the 
thinking  and  sensational  processes  of  the  audi- 
ence. 

As  the  suppressed  force  compels  to  thought,  so 
does  declamatory  force  arouse  in  the  human  be- 
ing everything  that  is  grand  and  strong, — open 
and  candid  sentiments  for  the  world  to  hear. 
Declamation  is  beautiful  and  powerful  in  its 
place,  but  when  misplaced,  as  it  often  is,  for  want 
of  intelligence  in  the  actor,  it  becomes  bombastic 
rant,  offensive  even  to  common  sense,  and  dis- 

127 


t  Art  of  Arttng 

tressful  to  the  cultivated  auditor,  "the  censure  of 
the  which,  one  should  in  your  allowance  outweigh 
a  whole  theatre  of  others."  There  are  many  beau- 
tiful speeches  for  the  illustration  of  declamatory 
force  in  nearly  all  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  but 
"Julius  Caesar"  is  peculiarly  rich  in  oppor- 
tunities for  the  practice  of  this  factor  of  ex- 
pression. One  of  the  notable  misapplications  of 
this  force  is  generally  made  in  the  opening  of 
Othello's  oration,  commencing  with  "Most  potent, 
grave  and  reverend  signiors,"  before  the  Venetian 
Senate;  for  although  his  remembrance  of  the 
"moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field,"  and  his  en- 
thusiasm over  the  growing  love  of  Desdemona, 
may  rouse  him  up  to  the  declamation  during  the 
progress  of  his  speech ;  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  mental  embarrassment  of  the  situation, 
and  the  great  respect  due  to  the  grave  and  rev- 
erend senators  before  whom  he  was  called,  would 
hold  the  voice  down  to  a  moderate  force,  or  even 
less  loudness  in  the  beginning  of  his  discourse. 
Some  actors  have  partly  reformed  the  bom- 
bastic destruction  of  this  chaste  and  beautiful 

128 


specimen  of  oratory.      "But  oh,   reform  it  al- 
together." 

Impassioned  Force. 

When  mentality  is  subordinated  to  the  physical, 
by  reason  of  any  sensation  whatever,  whether  the 
animal  nature  is  showing  its  selfishness  through 
the  shriek  of  terror,  the  shout  of  joy,  the  groan 
of  horror,  or  the  outburst  of  grief,  we  may  call 
the  force  of  the  emotion  impassioned. 

Impassioned  force,  as  the  phrase  implies,  indi- 
cates the  absence  of  mental  control.  It  shows 
itself  in  the  falsetto  of  a  shriek  and  in  the  aspi- 
rated pectoral  of  a  groan.  In  nature  this  force 
is  frequently  the  cause  of  death.  Anger  with  im- 
passioned force  may  produce  apoplexy.  The  im- 
passioned sensations  of  joy  sometimes  kill,  and 
impassioned  grief  will  dethrone  reason,  begetting 
melancholia  which  generally  terminates  in  death. 

The  imitation  of  impassioned  force  on  the  stage 
is  dangerous,  and  sometimes  brings  serious  re- 
sults to  the  actor.  It  requires  great  muscular 
power  to  represent  it,  and  great  strength  of 
muscle  and  nerve  to  sustain  the  effect.     No  per- 

129 


Sllf^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

son  unskilled  in  acting  can  imitate  impassioned 
force  with  impunity;  for  if  the  native  feeling  be 
so  strong  as  entirely  to  control  the  muscular  en- 
ergy, he  will  first  be  in  danger  of  the  accidents 
that  happen  in  real  life,  or  if  his  physique  be 
strong  enough  to  escape  these,  he  will,  in  ninety- 
nine  cases  in  the  hundred,  overact  the  situation 
and  so  bring  down  the  censure  of  the  audience. 
And  again,  if,  without  proper  training,  he  relies 
entirely  upon  his  mental  direction,  by  impulse,  he 
will  find  his  untutored  muscles  unequal  to  the 
work,  awkwardness  will  result,  and  the  laugh  will 
come  when  tears  are  expected. 

It  is  only  through  the  ability  to  re-present  im- 
passioned force  that  an  artist  may  truthfully  por- 
tray the  heroic  emotions  of  Shakespeare's  dra- 
matic characters. 

Such  creatures  as  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth 
demand  from  the  artist  not  only  a  well  cultivated 
and  developed  mind  to  conceive  their  mental  at- 
tributes, but  a  thoroughly  well  trained  physique 
to  act  those  conceptions.  It  is  for  the  want  of 
attention  to  the  requirements  of  an  art  that  make 

130 


Iftivtt 

such  drafts  upon  the  vitaUty  of  the  performer, 
that  we  have  to-day  but  few  native  American 
actresses  who  can  present  a  truthful  picture  of 
the  wonderfully  woeful  grandeur  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth's  selfish  and  destructive  remorse. 

Impassioned  force,  in  addition  to  the  aspiration 
of  the  voice,  caused  by  driving  more  breath  upon 
the  vocal  cords  than  can  be  converted  into  pure 
vocality,  assumes  a  trembling,  shaking  movement 
because  of  the  momentum  of  the  sensation  as  it 
passes  over  the  body,  producing  a  vibratory  mo- 
tion. Therefore,  an  aspirated  tremor  will  appear 
in  impassioned  force  whatever  the  quality  of 
voice.  Even  the  piercing  falsetto  in  a  shriek  of 
terror,  will  become  aspirated  and  vibratory,  if  the 
cause  of  the  emotion  should  produce  many  repeti- 
tions of  the  expression.  Horror,  the  unrelieved 
condition  of  terror,  not  only  produces  this  shaky 
movement  of  the  voice,  but  it  also  causes  such  ab- 
normal contractions  and  relaxations  of  the  entire 
body,  as  to  break  up  the  continuity  of  sound, 
changing  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  voice  at 
almost  every  instant  of  its  duration,  begetting 

131 


aijf^  Art  0f  Arttng 

discords  in  tone  and  time  that  are  truly  distress- 
ful to  the  listener. 

One  may  sometimes  see  a  full  expression  of  ter- 
ror in  the  effect  of  thunder  and  lightning  upon  a 
herd  of  cattle  in  the  prairies.  The  wild  running, 
the  muscular  contractions,  and  the  unnatural  bel- 
lowings  of  the  terrified  animals  are  fearful  to  be- 
hold. A  truly  terrified  or  horrified  man  is  an 
animal  with  such  cultivated  powers  of  communi- 
cation as  enable  him  to  pray  for  existence.  We 
jnay  suppose  sufficient  mentality  to  suppress  the 
extreme  expression  of  impassioned  force,  but  this 
very  suppression  of  voice  will  produce  tremulous 
and  disjointed  action. 

There  is  a  very  fine  study  of  impassioned  force 
by  mental  suppression  in  the  Horatio  and  Hamlet 
scenes  with  the  Ghost  in  the  First  Act  of  "Ham- 
let." These  scenes  are  full  of  impassioned  force 
held  down  in  its  vocal  effort  by  the  disciplined 
minds  of  the  speakers,  but  manifesting  itself  in 
the  tremor  of  the  body,  which  should  produce  dis- 
jointed action  of  the  voice  in  both  Horatio  and 
Hamlet.    Marcellus  says : 

132 


3tittt 

"How  now,  Horatio,  you  tremble  and  look 
pale." 

and  Hamlet  in  his  first  speech  to  the  Ghost  says : 

"What  may  this  mean. 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel, 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Making  night  hideous,  and  we  fools  of  nature 
So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls  ?" 

There  is  a  fine  expression  of  uncontrolled  ter- 
ror in  Macbeth's  scenes  with  the  ghost  of  Banquo, 
when  the  sensation  of  impending  danger  is  so 
great  as  entirely  to  dethrone  reason  for  the  time, 
compelling  him  to  play  the  madman  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  had  most  need  for  all  the  diplo- 
macy of  the  courtier  and  the  majestic  dignity  of 
the  king.  His  emotion  of  terror  breaks  up  the 
banquet  "with  most  admired  disorder."  Mac- 
beth's  two  speeches  upon  the  second  appearance 
of  the  ghost,  beginning  with  "Avaunt!  and  quit 
my  sight!"  and  "What  man  dare,  I  dare,"  are 
very  strong  illustrations  of  the  impassioned  force, 
resulting  from  the  desperation  of  terror,  wherein 
we  see  the  hero  challenging  a  "horrible  shadow," 

133 


®ifr  Art  0f  Artittg 

an  "unreal  mockery,"  to  be  alive  again,  and  meet 
him  in  mortal  combat.  Terror  has  so  over- 
whelmed Macbeth's  intellectual  functions  that  he 
entirely  ignores  the  presence  of  the  "good  peers'* 
by  whom  he  is  surrounded,  and  talks  like  a  mad- 
man. He  even  wonders  that  others  can  "keep 
the  natural  ruby"  of  their  cheeks  while  his  "are 
blanch'd  with  fear."  And  when  the  ghost  dis- 
appears he  says : 

'*Why  so ; — being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again — " 

thus  admitting  that  he  has  been  shaken  from  his 
manhood. 

Macduff's  return  from  the  chamber  where  the 
murdered  king  lay  is  a  very  severe  test  of  the 
actor's  knowledge  of  the  science  and  art  of  his 
profession. 

In  the  traditional  acting  of  this  scene  the  actor 
enters  with  his  sword  drawn  and  with  declama- 
tory force  in  voice,  while  beating  the  canvas  walls 
of  the  castle  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  till  they 
shake  from  foundation  to  turret,  he  shouts : 

134 


"O !  horror,  horror,  horror, 
"Tongue  nor  heart  cannot  conceive  nor  name 

thee. 
Confusion  now  hath  made  his  masterpiece ; 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building." 

Such  a  representation  of  this  scene  is  too  ab- 
surd for  a  student  of  dramatic  art,  yet  this  was 
the  manner  of  acting  adopted  by  the  most  im- 
portant actors — ^men  who  had  filled  "leading" 
positions  in  the  profession. 

If  we  may  judge  from  the  words  spoken  by 
Macduff  when  he  enters,  we  must  conclude  that 
horror  is  the  sensation  that  is  prompting  to 
speech. 

Horror  relaxes  the  muscles  and  produces  a 
tremulous  condition  of  the  whole  body.  The 
voice  is  aspirated,  the  utterance  explosive  and 
spasmodic.  The  face  is  pale  and  much  distorted 
— the  eyes  are  widely  open  and  staring — the 
walk  a  kind  of  stagger,  but  not  like  the  move- 
ments of  a  drunken  person,  for  there  the  mental 
force  is  striving  to  control  the  action. 

Macduff  should  enter  quickly,  speaking  with 

135 


®In?  Art  0f  Arttits 

aspirated  voice,  uneven  in  movement  and  irregu- 
lar in  pause.  He  should  move  about  the  court- 
yard as  he  speaks,  and  at  the  line,  "the  life  o' 
the  building,"  he  should  throw  himself  on  a  set- 
tee and  remain  there  through  the  speech  ending 
with,  "see  and  speak  for  yourselves." 

At  Macbeth's  exit  Macduff  should  start  up 
quickly,  and  while  passing  from  one  point  to  an- 
other, indicating  the  several  sleeping  chambers, 
having  partly  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
horror,  he  should  shout  with  great  energy  and 
loudness  the  lines  beginning  with 

"Awake !  Awake !   Ring  the  alarum-bell." 

When  Banquo  enters  he  should  throw  himself 
on  Banquo's  breast  and  with  tremulous,  broken 
voice  speak  the  lines — 

"O,  Banquo !    Banquo ! 

Our  royal  master's  murdered." 


136 


^tttBB 


Tj>  VERY  tonic  element  uttered  must  have 
-*— '  duration  or  length  of  sound,  and  so  must 
have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  ending.  Now 
it  has  been  observed,  as  one  of  the  phenomena  of 
expression,  that  the  force  of  the  voice  in  speak- 
ing is  continually  changing  its  location  in  the 
sound,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  emotion 
or  thought  to  be  expressed.  Sometimes  the  force 
is  heard  evenly  distributed  throughout  the  en- 
tire length  of  the  sound;  sometimes  its  main 
strength,  or  blow,  falls  upon  the  initial  or  radi- 
cal part  of  the  sound;  sometimes  on  the  middle; 
sometimes  on  the  final;  and  sometimes  it  is 
broken  up  in  tittles,  making  a  kind  of  trembling 
of  the  voice  that  continues  from  the  beginning  to 

137 


®i)?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

the  end  of  the  sound.  This  ever-shifting  force  is 
called  stress.  Therefore,  we  may  define  stress  as 
the  application  of  force  to  some  given  part  of 
the  sound;  and,  in  order  that  we  may  study  the 
different  effects  produced  by  stress  we  may  narae 
them  from  their  place  or  location  in  the  sound 
as,  Thorough  Stress,  Radical  Stress,  Median 
Stress,  Vanishing  Stress,  and  the  Stress  of 
Tremor. 

These  various  stresses,  existing  in  our  spoken 
language,  may  be  heard  at  all  times,  and  may  be 
studied  among  all  classes  of  speakers,  whatever 
may  be  their  skill  in  pronunciation,  grammar  or 
rhetoric.  Stress  must  be  wherever  there  is  force. 
Each  kind  of  stress  has  its  own  dramatic  lan- 
guage. And  through  the  knowledge  of  this  lan- 
guage, as  it  is  heard  in  nature,  the  actor  must  be 
able  to  apply  the  factor  stress,  in  re-presenting 
the  author's  emotions  that  lie  hidden  among  his 
words. 

Thorough  Stress. 

The  Thorough  Stress  is  the  language  of 
mental  equilibrium  and  prevails  whenever  the  sit- 

138 


uation  calls  for  a  sustained  force,  as  in  the  purely 
mechanical  effort  of  shouting,  calling  or  com- 
manding. It  is  the  language  of  dignity,  and  it 
gives  the  monotonous  effect  heard  in  the  expres- 
sions of  awe,  grandeur  and  sublimity. 

This  stress  may  be  heard  with  declamatory 
force  in  Macduff's  call, 

"Awake !  awake ! — 
Ring  the  alarum-bell : — murder  and  treason  1 
Banquo  and  Donalbain!     Malcolm!     awake! 
Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself !  up,  up,  and  see 
The  great  doom's  image!    Malcolm!    Banquo! 
As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like 

sprites, 
To  countenance  this  horror !" 

The  thorough  stress  also  expresses  the  awful 
ness  of  the  voice  that  cried : 

"Sleep  no  more ;  to  all  the  house : 
Glamis    hath     murdered    sleep    and     therefore 

Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more:    Macbeth  shall  sleep  no 
more :" 

This    stress    might    prevail    throughout    the 
Ghost's  story  to  Hamlet,  and  is  undoubtedly  the 

139 


(Jlf?  Art  0f  Artttt5 

only  stress  that  can  truly  convey  the  awful  sensa- 
tions of  Macbeth  while  contemplating  his  sur- 
roundings after  the  hallucination  of  the  dagger 
has  passed  from  his  mind  and  the  realities  of  the 
time  and  the  place  present  themselves  to  him. 

"Now  o'er  the  one-half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep ;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings ;  and  wither 'd  murder 
Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf. 
Whose  howFs  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy 

pace. 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  toward  his 

design 
Moves  like  a  ghost.     Thou  sure  and  firm-set 

earth. 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for 

fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 
Which  now  suits  with  it." 

Radical  Stress. 

Radical  Stress  is  the  language  of  impulse.  All 
of  those  emotions  in  which  the  sensation  is  so 
abrupt  as  to  be  explosive  in  utterance,  expend 

140 


the  greater  part  of  the  force  on  the  opening  of 
the  sound  and  thus  become  initial  or  radical  in 
stress.  Joy  and  anger,  though  they  may  differ 
in  quality  of  voice,  will  be  the  same  in  mode  of 
utterance  and  stress — that  is,  explosive  in  utter- 
ance and  initial  or  radical  in  stress.  All  the 
acute,  active  phases  of  joy,  as  gladness,  mirth 
and  merriment,  though  less  in  force  and  differing 
in  quality  of  voice,  will  still  manifest  themselves 
through  explosive  utterance  and  radical  stress. 

This  kind  of  stress  is  the  weapon  with  which 
the  precisely  didactic  and  dogmatic  speaker  de- 
livers a  mental  blow  at  the  understanding  of  his 
auditors.  It  has  power  to  arouse  and  keep  awake 
the  perceptive  faculties  and  is  always  sure  to  hold 
the  attention.  Used  in  excess,  the  radical  stress 
is  the  language  of  arrogant  egotism. 

One  may  find  a  very  happy  illustration  of  the 
predominence  of  initial  stress  in  the  merriment 
of  Gratiano's  speech  in  the  "Merchant  of 
Venice:" 

"Let  me  play  the  fool : 
With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come ; 

141 


^ift  Art  0f  Attittg 

And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes?  and  creep  into  the  jaun- 
dice 
By  being  peevish  ?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks — " 

Up  to  this  point  in  the  speech  certainly  the 
radical  or  initial  stress  prevails;  but,  from  this 
place,  the  thorough  stress  would  run  through  the 
next  seven  lines  to  present  the  assumed  mental 
equilibrium  and  dignity  of  the  would-be  oracles — 

"A  sort  of  men  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle  like  a  standing  pond. 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain. 
With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit; 
As  who  should  say,  /  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  barkT 

And,  again,  the  merriment  of  Gratiano  breaks 
into  the  radical  stress  and  explosive  utterance  of 
laughter  with  the  abrupt  exclamation : 

"Oh,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these. 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise 
For  saying  nothing." 

Another  fine  illustration  of  radical  stress  and 

142 


explosive  utterance  may  be  found  in  Shylock*s 
reply  to  Solanio  and  Salarino  after  they  have  as- 
sisted Lorenzo  in  eloping  with  Jessica.  Solanio, 
meeting  Shylock,  says: 

"How  now,  Shylock  ?  What  news  among  the 
merchants  ?" 

With  an  outburst  of  anger  Shylock  replies : 

"You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as  you, 
of  my  daughter's  flight." 

And  again  the  radical  stress  and  explosive  utter- 
ance, with  the  impassioned  force,  very  clearly 
expresses  the  malignant  joy  that  Shylock  feels 
when  Tubal  tells  him  that  "Antonio  is  certainly 
undone."    Shylock  replies : 

"Nay,  that's  true ;  that's  very  true.  Go,  Tubal, 
fee  me  an  officer;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  be- 
fore. I  will  have  the  heart  of  him  if  he  forfeit ; 
for,  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make  what 
merchandise  I  will.  Go,  go,  Tubal,  and  meet 
me  at  our  synagogue;  go,  good  Tubal;  at  our 
synagogue.  Tubal." 

The  radical  stress,  with  moderate  force  and 
varying  qualities  of  voice  from  head  tone  to 
orotund,  will  prevail  in  the  didactic  and  argu- 

143 


Wilt  Art  nf  Arting 

mentative  matter  of  Hamlet's  advice  to  the  play- 
ers: 

"Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced 
it  to  you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue:  but  if  you 
mouth  it,  as  many  of  our  players  do,  I  had  as  lief 
the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines." 

Median  Stress. 

When  the  emotion  expresses  the  pleasing 
sensations  of  the  speaker,  or  when  it  seeks  to 
arouse  a  feeling  of  pleasure  in  the  auditor,  we 
find  the  force  of  the  voice  locating  itself  in  the 
middle  of  the  sound  by  a  crescendo  and  diminu- 
endo movement  that  produces  a  decidedly  mu- 
sical effect.  This  form  of  the  application  of  force 
is  called  median  or  middle  stress. 

This  stress  being  musical  in  its  nature  has 
within  itself  the  power  to  take  the  mind  from  the 
realisms  of  its  surroundings,  and  wholly  to  en- 
gage it  merely  with  the  pleasures  of  sound.  It 
stops  the  projection  of  thought  and  checks  reflec- 
tion, and  so  the  truth  of  the  situation  is  not  ques- 
tioned. The  mind  simply  longs  for,  or  desires,  a 
continuance  of  present  enjoyment. 

144 


The  median  stress  prevails  in  the  language  of 
love,  friendship,  mercy,  happiness  and  pity ;  and, 
through  pity  for  self,  this  stress  is  heard  in  the 
language  of  sadness,  melancholy,  regret  and 
penitence.  The  dramatic  language  of  the  median 
stress  is  persuasion. 

This  stress,  when  properly  applied,  gives  a 
charm  to  the  speaking  voice  that  is  only  exceeded 
by  the  singing  voice,  which,  through  the  science 
of  music,  deals  alone  with  sound,  and  has  the 
power  to  charm,  even  without  the  sense  of  the 
words. 

A  very  beautiful  illustration  of  the  median 
stress,  with  suppressed  force,  may  be  found  in 
the  Balcony  Scene  between  Romeo  and  Juliet  in 
Shakespeare's  play.  In  this  scene,  love,  under 
circumstances  which  compel  secrecy,  is  the 
prompting  emotion. 

Portia's  speech  on  the  quality  of  mercy  in  the 
Fourth  Act  of  the  "Merchant  of  Venice"  affords 
another  fine  opportunity  for  the  use  of  this  stress. 
The  object  of  the  speaker  is  to  awaken  the  feel- 
ings of  Shylock  to  sympathy,  and,  through  sym- 

145 


Bift  Art  0f  Arttttg 

pathy  with  a  divine  attribute,  to  beget  in  his  mind 
pity  for  Antonio. 

"The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath ;  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes : 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest.     It  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 

The  attribute  to  law  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  scepter'd  sway, — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  heart  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself ; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 

When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 

Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 

That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 

The  deeds  of  mercy." 

In  the  regret  and  penitence  of  Wolsey  in 
"King  Henry  VIII"  there  is  another  fine  illustra- 
tion of  the  median  stress.  Wolsey  evidently 
pities  himself  when  he  says : 

"O  Cromwell,  Cromwell ! 
Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  served  my  King,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies." 

146 


I 

r 


Through  the  median  stress,  the  noble,  growing 
love  of  Othello  declares  itself  to  Desdemona 
when  he  says : 

"If  it  were  now  to  die, 
Twere  now  to  be  most  happy ;  for  I  fear, 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate." 

Vanishing  or  Final  Stress. 

When  the  force  is  carried  over  to  the  last  part 
of  the  sound,  the  very  act  of  such  carrying  over 
seems  to  imply  determination,  and  so  we  find  that 
this  application  of  force,  which  is  called  iinal 
stress,  is  heard  in  all  of  those  emotions  where  time 
has  settled  down  upon  the  impulse  and  seems  to 
exert  a  restraining  influence  on  the  voice  for  the 
purpose  of  making  the  outcome  more  positive 
and  irrevocable. 

Final  stress  is  therefore  the  language  of 
hatred,  which  is  in  reality  a  result  of  the  effect  of 
time  upon  unsatisfied  anger.  Final  stress  is  also 
the  language  of  impatience,  and  it  is  heard  in 
weeping,  or  crying,  when  despite  the  effort  to 

147 


Elft  Art  0f  Arttttg 

suppress  protracted  and  convulsive  grief,  the 
voice  breaks  away  at  the  end  of  a  wailing  sound 
and  explodes  in  the  sob.  Horror  and  the  sensa- 
tions of  disgust,  loathing  and  dread  are  expressed 
in  nature  by  the  final  stress. 

A  good  exemplification  of  this  stress  may  be 
found  in  the  soliloquy  of  Shylock  expressing  his 
hatred  for  Antonio  (orotund,  slow,  downward 
inflection) : 

"How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks ! 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian ; 
But  more  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation;  and  he  rails 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift. 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe 
If  I  forgive  him !" 

An  excellent  example  of  final  stress,  express- 
ing impatience,  may  be  found  in  the  language  of 
Juliet  in  the  Second  Act  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet," 
where  she  is  awaiting  the  return  of  the  Nurse 
(head  tone,  moderate  time)  : 

148 


"The  clock  struck  nine  when  I  did  send  the 

Nurse ; 
In  half  an  hour  she  promised  to  return. 
Perchance  she  cannot  meet  him : — that's  not  so, — 
O,  she  is  lame !  love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
Which   ten  times   faster  glide  than  the   sun's 

beams. 
Driving  back  shadows  over  lowering  hills : 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinioned  doves  draw  love 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings. 
Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey ;  and  from  nine  till  twelve 
Is  three  long  hours, — ^yet  she  is  not  come. 
Had  she  affections  and  warm  youthful  blood, 
She'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball ; 
My  words  would  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love,* 
And  his  to  me :" 

Macduff's  discovery  and  announcement  of  the 
murder  of  King  Duncan  in  "Macbeth,"  affords 
an  excellent  illustration  of  the  final  stress  in  the 
expression  of  horror. 

"O  horror,  horror,  horror !    Tongue  nor  heart 
Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee ! 
Confusion  now  hath  made  his  masterpiece ! 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building. 

Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  sight 
With  a  new  Gorgon : — do  not  bid  me  speak ; 
See,  and  then  speak  yourselves." 

149 


^ift  Art  0f  Arttng 

To  one  who  has  witnessed  the  effect  of  horror 
in  real  life,  nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than  the 
usual  stage  presentation  of  the  dramatic  situation 
in  which  the  above  passage  occurs. 

Horror  shakes  the  body,  aspirates  the  voice, 
and  breaks  up  the  movement  into  spasmodic  ac- 
tion; and  yet,  despite  the  nature  of  the  situation, 
and  the  author's  description  of  it,  the  thoughtless 
actor  rushes  on  like  a  giant  in  strength  and,  with 
a  voice  of  a  Stentor,  shouts  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  the  scene ;  and,  then,  as  if  not  satis- 
fied with  this  outrage  on  art,  he  exposes  the  coun- 
terfeit castle  by  beating  the  painted  canvas  till  he 
shakes  the  walls  from  foundation  to  chimney  top. 
Declamatory  force  and  smoothness  in  movement 
of  the  voice  might  appear  when  Macduff  had  suf- 
ficiently recovered  from  the  prostrating  effect  of 
the  emotion,  to  command  himself  and  awake  the 
surrounding  sleepers. 

Another  very  excellent  example  of  the  final 
stress  may  be  found  in  the  extreme  grief  of  Lady 
Capulet  over  the  supposed  death  of  Juliet,  Act 
IV,  Scene  V. 

150 


"Accurs'd,  unhappy,  wretched,  hateful  day ! 

Most  miserable  hour  that  e'er  time  saw 

In  lasting  labour  of  his  pilgrimage! 

But  one,  poor  one,  one  poor  and  loving  child, 

But  one  thing  to  rejoice  and  solace  in. 

And  cruel  death  hath  catched  it  from  my  sight !" 

Stress  of  Tremor. 

The  Stress  of  Tremor  is  the  language  of  weak- 
ness, either  positive  or  comparative.  It  is  there- 
fore heard  in  sickness,  old  age,  extreme  grief  or 
extreme  joy,  or  in  any  emotion  where  the  sensa- 
tion is  so  great  as  to  cause  a  trembling  or  shaking 
of  the  muscular  system,  and,  per  consequence,  a 
vibratory  action  in  the  voice. 

This  stress  is  not  only  the  exponent  of  weak- 
ness, of  old  age  and  sickness,  but  also  of  all  emo- 
tion in  the  rage  or  ecstasy  of  impassioned  force. 
The  stress  of  tremor  seems  to  be  the  point  of 
expression  at  which  the  extremes  of  human  emo- 
tions meet,  for  we  find  it  the  dominating  stress 
in  extreme  uncontrolled  grief  and  the  outburst  of 
laughter. 

Tremor  is  the  result  of  breaking  up  the  force 
of  the  voice  by  an  ungovernable  impulse  and 

151 


®if?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

sending  it  out  in  a  succession  of  rapid  explosions. 
Without  the  Stress  of  Tremor  the  old  age  and 
weakness  of  Adam  in  "As  You  Like  It,"  when 
he  breaks  down  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  would 
fall  far  short  of  truthful  illustration. 

Adam  to  Orlando. 
Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  farther :  O,  I  die  for 

food! 
Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  my  grave. 
Farewell,  kind  master. 

Aeain,  the  stress  of  tremor  must  be  heard  in 
the  form  of  laughter  in  the  speech  of  Jacques 
("As  You  Like  It")  to  the  Duke,  wherein  he  de- 
scribes the  merriment  that  made  him  laugh  sans 
intermission  an  hour  by  the  dial. 

"A  fool,  a  fool ! — I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 

A  motley  fool ! — a  miserable  world ! — 

As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool, 

Who  laid  him  down  and  basked  him  in  the  sun. 

And  rail'd  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 

In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool." 

The  grief  of  Juliet,  on  hearing  the  news  of 
Romeo's  banishment,  would  fall  far  short  of  im- 
passioned force  without  this  stress.  In  laughter, 
the  tremor  rides  out  upon  a  radical  or  initial 

152 


I 


stress  with  an  explosive  utterance,  while  in  weep- 
ing the  utterance  is  expulsive  and  the  stress  to 
which  the  tremor  attaches  itself  is  final. 

"Back,  foolish  tears,  back  to  your  native  spring ; 

Your  tributary  drops  belong  to  woe, 

Which  you,  mistaking,  offer  up  to  joy. 

My  husband  lives,  that  Tybalt  would  have  slain ; 

And  Tybalt's  dead,  that  would  have  slain  my 

husband : 
All  this  is  comfort;  wherefore  weep  I,  then? 
Some  word  there  was,  far  worse  than  Tybalt's 

death, 
That  murdered  me :     I  would  forget  it  fain ; 
But,  O,  it  presses  to  my  memory 
Like  damned  guilty  deeds  to  sinners'  minds: 
Tybalt  is  dead,  and  Romeo  banished. 
That  banish' d,  that  one  word  banished, 
Hath  slain  ten  thousand  Tybalts — to  speak  that 

word 
Is  father,  mother,  Tybalt,  Romeo,  Juliet, 
All  slain,  all  dead." 

Without  the  stress  of  tremor  the  grief  and 
anger  of  Macduff  in  Scene  III  of  Act  IV,  would 
fall  short  of  impassioned  force,  and  would  un- 
doubtedly fail  to  arouse  the  sympathetic  response 
that  is  always  made  by  an  audience,  when  the 
force  and  stress  of  this  passage  in  the  play,  are 
truthfully  presented.    After  the  first  outburst  of 

153 


©If?  Art  0f  Artttts 

grief  on  the  part  of  Macduff,  when  Malcolm 
says:  "Dispute  it  like  a  man!''  we  can  readily 
imagine  the  impassioned  force,  the  expulsive  ut- 
terance, and  the  vanishing  or  final  stress  with 
which  he  would  express  his  determination  in  the 
line  "I  shall  do  so !"  and  then  the  breaking  down 
of  that  fierce  combativeness  by  the  mental  action 
that  formulates  the  next  thought  in  the  words : 

"But  I  mugt  also  feel  it  as  a  man: 

I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 

That  were  most  precious  to  me. — Did  heaven 

look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?    Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee!     Naught  that  I 

am! 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls:  heaven  rest  them 

now!" 

Then  Malcolm,  seeking  by  his  mental  delibera- 
tion to  change  the  current  of  feeling,  now  ex- 
pressed in  grief,  to  anger,  so  that  he  may  use  it 
against  Macbeth,  instead  of  allowing  it  to  ex- 
haust itself  upon  the  memory  of  the  pretty 
chickens  and  their  dam,  says : 

"Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword :    let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it." 

154 


And,  immediately,  the  tones  of  tenderness  are 
turned  to  strength.  Indignation  grows  into 
anger  that  swells  and  rages  with  such  impas- 
sioned force  that  the  whole  frame  vibrates  under 
it  and  again  we  hear  the  tremor — 

*'0,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eye, 
And    braggart    with    my    tongue ! — But,  gentle 

heavens, 
Cut  short  all  intermission ;  front  to  front 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myself; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him;  if  he  'scape 

me 
Heaven  forgive  him  too !" 


155 


Pitrti  unh  3nfUrtt0n 


PITCH  is  a  term  in  the  nomenclature  of 
music,  and  is  used  to  denote  the  various 
degrees  of  elevation  or  depression  in  the  tones  of 
the  voice.  Pitch  may  therefore  be  defined  as  any 
given  point  in  the  line  of  sound  up  or  down, — a 
technical  term  belonging  exclusively  to  music. 

A  study  of  pitch  in  its  relation  to  music  is  not 
at  all  necessary  to  the  art  of  elocution  in  acting. 

A  knowledge  of  and  practice  in  the  various 
qualities  of  voice  will  furnish  the  dramatic  artist 
with  all  the  varieties  in  elevation  and  depression 
of  voice  necessary  to  the  expression  of  any  emo- 
tion of  which  the  human  being  is  capable;  but  I 
have  thought  proper  to  define  pitch  the  better  to 
enable  me  to  define  Inflection,  a  very  important 
factor  in  expression. 

Pitch,  as  I  have  said,  is  any  given  point  in  the 
line  of  sound  up  or  down;  and  the  movement  of 

156 


Pttrif  unh  3(ttfUrtt0tt 

the  voice  from  any  point  along  that  Hne  is  inflec- 
tion. The  degree  of  the  inflection  will  always  de- 
pend upon  the  strength  of  the  sensation  of  which 
the  emotion  is  an  expression. 

It  is  true  that  the  sensation  may  be  so  slight 
as  to  produce  very  little  muscular  contraction, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  the  variations  in  the  move- 
ment of  the  voice  up  and  down  will  be  scarcely 
noticeable.  Nevertheless,  the  inflections  are  con- 
stant on  every  tonic  element  that  we  utter,  and 
are  the  principal  cause  of  the  difference  between 
speaking  and  singing. 

In  singing,  the  tonic  elements  of  the  language 
are  always  uttered  as  monotones,  unless  there  be 
a  slide  or  a  slur  upon  the  tonic  element,  turning 
it  to  some  other  tonic  in  a  higher  or  lower  pitch ; 
but,  in  speaking,  the  voice  is  inflected  from  high 
to  low,  or  from  low  to  high,  on  every  tonic  ele- 
ment enunciated.  In  other  words,  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  monotone  in  speaking ;  yet  a  phrase 
or  a  sentence  or  a  paragraph  may  be  made 
monotonous  in  the  delivery,  by  the  recurrence  of 
any  given  quality  of  voice,   together  with  the 

157 


Wift  Art  0f  Arttttg 

same  rate  of  movement  and  pause,  and  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  same  inflections. 

This  condition  of  the  voice  results  from  a 
mental  recognition  of  the  grandeur,  the  awful- 
ness  or  solemnity  of  the  subject.  In  the  expres- 
sion of  the  awful,  the  horrible,  the  grand,  and  the 
amazing,  a  variety  of  inflections  would  counter- 
act the  effect  of  the  emotion,  by  showing  that  the 
weight  of  the  sensation  could  be  lifted  and 
moved  about,  that  is,  up  or  down,  at  will. 

The  domination  of  strong  emotions  is  shown 
by  the  suppression  of  muscular  action;  while 
variety  in  inflection  indicates  the  domination  of 
mentality  over  sensation. 

Inflection,  then,  is  divergence  of  the  line  of 
action  from  a  given  point.  In  the  speaking 
voice,  from  the  moment  it  strikes  the  ear  till  the 
sound  is  no  longer  heard,  there  is  a  continuous 
rising  or  falling  above  or  below  the  point  at 
which  it  is  first  heard;  and  the  movement  of  the 
voice  up  or  down  from  that  point,  is  inflection  of 
the  voice. 

The  degree  of  the  inflection  upward  or  down- 

158 


r 


ward  from  the  starting  point  will  depend  upon 
the  strength  of  the  sensation  that  makes  the  emo- 
tion. 

There  are  but  two  directions  in  which  the  voice 
can  diverge,  viz.,  upward  and  downward;  and 
there  are,  consequently,  but  two  inflections,  viz., 
a  rising  inflection  and  a  falling  inflection;  but 
there  is  sometimes  a  divergence  from  a  straight 
line  of  action  in  both  the  rising  and  the  falling 
inflections  that  makes  an  entire  change  in  the 
meaning  of  the  word  or  phrase  to  which  it  is  ap- 
plied. It  is  therefore  necessary  to  name  this 
divergence,  so  that  it  may  be  defined  and  its 
meaning  understood.  It  is  called  a  "circumflex  in- 
flection" and  the  circuitous  movement  of  the  voice 
in  this  divergence  from  the  direct  line  is  heard  in 
both  the  rising  and  the  falling  inflections.  Here, 
then,  are  two  variations  in  the  inflection  of  the 
voice  from  its  starting  point. 

The  first  two  inflections  of  the  voice  are  a 
direct  rising  inflection  and  a  direct  falling  inflec- 
tion ;  the  variations  from  these  are  an  indirect  or 
circumflex  rising  inflection,  and  an  indirect  or 

159 


©Iji>  Art  0f  Artittg 

circumflex  falling  inflection.  Beside  these  two 
variations  from  the  direct  rising  and  falling  in- 
flections, there  is  heard  in  the  voice  under  some 
mental  conditions,  a  union  of  the  rising  and  the 
falling  circumflex  inflection  that  may,  for  the 
sake  of  distinguishing  it  and  describing  its  mean- 
ing, be  called  a  compound  circumflex  inflection. 

To  recapitulate,  we  have  two  inflections  of  the 
voice  in  speech  with  three  strongly  marked  varia- 
tions, viz. : 

The  Direct  Rising  Inflection. 

The  Direct  Falling  Inflection. 

The  Circumflex  Rising  Inflection. 

The  Circumflex  Falling  Inflection. 

The  Compound  Circumflex  Inflection. 

It  is  something  to  know  that  these  several 
variations  in  the  movement  of  the  voice  exist  in 
nature;  but,  unless  we  know  the  cause  of  these 
variations,  we  cannot  bring  them  in  from  the 
field  of  nature  and  apply  them  in  the  art  of  Read- 
ing and  Recitation. 

The  cause  of  the  Direct  Rising  Inflection  in 
nature,  is  simplicity  of  mental  action  and  contin- 

160 


I 


Pttrif  nnh  'SnfUttxnn 

uity  of  thought.  The  cause  of  the  Direct  Falling 
Inflection  is  simplicity  of  mental  action  and  com- 
pleteness of  thought. 

In  the  Circumflex  Inflection  the  rising  and  fall- 
ing movement  of  the  voice  express  continuity  of 
thought  and  completeness  of  thought,  just  the 
same  as  the  upward  or  downward  movement  in 
the  Direct  Inflection ;  but  the  divergence  from  the 
direct  line  of  action  indicates  mental  duplicity  or 
double  action  of  the  mind.  This  can  readily  be 
shown  by  the  lines  of  a  right  angled  triangle. 

The  direct  rising  or  the  direct  falling  inflection 
will  represent  the  hypothenuse  of  the  triangle  by 
a  straight  line,  which  is  the  shortest  line  that  can 
be  made  from  any  given  point  on  the  base  of  the 
angle  to  any  given  point  on  the  perpendicular. 

Any  divergence  from  the  hypothenuse  in 
reaching  a  point  on  the  perpendicular  will 
lengthen  this  hypothenuse  or  inflection  of  the 
voice.  Now,  if  the  line  of  action  in  the  voice  be 
lengthened,  it  will  require  more  time  to  reach 
from  point  to  point  in  the  elevation  or  depression 
of  sound;  and  if  more  time  is  occupied  by  the 

161 


®If?  Art  nf  Arttng 

speaker  in  asking  a  question  or  making  a  state- 
ment than  is  necessary  in  the  situation,  it  is  be- 
cause while  he  is  saying  one  thing  he  is  thinking 
another.  The  increase  of  time  necessary  for  this 
double  action  of  the  mind  is  shown  in  the  in- 
crease of  time  in  the  movement  of  the  voice.  To 
make  this  increase  of  time,  the  circuitous  diver- 
gence lengthening  the  line,  yet  reaching  only  the 
same  elevation  or  depression,  results,  and  so  be- 
gets a  rising  and  falling  circumflection, — the  lan- 
guage of  contempt,  scorn,  irony,  sarcasm,  doubt, 
and  all  forms  of  vocal  expression  having  a  double 
meaning. 

The  phrase  "mental  duplicity,"  as  used  here, 
is  not  to  be  construed  as  a  disparaging  term,  but 
merely  expresses  double  action  of  the  mind. 

When  the  voice  in  its  movement  presents  a  cir- 
cumflex rising  inflection  and  immediately  turns 
downward  with  the  same  circuitous  action,  it  is 
the  language  of  mockery;  for,  while  the  rising  in- 
flection expresses  the  continuity  of  thought,  the 
immediate  falling  inflection  in  the  same  voice  is 
an  expression  of  a  premeditated  closing  out  of 

162 


I 


Pttclj  attJi  afnfUrttntt 

the  subject;  and  the  compound  circuitous  move- 
ment expresses  contempt  in  both  the  inception 
and  conclusion  of  the  vocal  expression.  This  ac- 
tion of  the  voice  is  mockery,  because  it  at  once  ex- 
presses contempt  and  denies  the  right  of  answer 
to  the  person  addressed. 

When  a  question  may  be  answered  by  "yes"  or 
"no,"  it  is  called  a  direct  question,  and  when  a 
question  cannot  be  answered  by  "yes"  or  "no,"  it 
is  called  a  compound  question. 

A  direct  question  takes  a  direct  rising  inflec- 
tion, because  it  expresses  a  continuity  of  thought 
on  the  part  of  the  questioner.  When  the  answer 
"yes"  or  "no"  is  given,  it  terminates  the  mental 
action  of  inquiry  or  seeking,  and  the  answer  is 
given  with  a  direct  downward  inflection,  because 
it  makes  completeness  of  thought,  e.  g.,  "Are  you 
going  home  ?"  is  a  direct  question,  and  indicates 
continuity  of  mental  action  on  the  part  of  the 
questioner,  which  is  satisfied  when  the  answer 
"yes"  or  "no"  is  given.  And  the  answer  is  given 
with  a  direct  falling  inflection  because  the  sense 
of  the  situation  is  complete. 

163 


©If?  Art  0f  Arttng 

Why  does  the  compound  question,  which,  from 
the  fact  of  its  being  a  question,  also  indicates  con- 
tinuity of  thought,  take  the  falHng  inflection — 
the  language  of  completeness  of  thought  ?  "Why 
are  you  going  home?"  is  a  compound  question 
and  is  asked  with  a  falling  inflection,  because  it  is 
mandatory  in  its  force  and  commands  an  answer 
instead  of  asking  for  one.  The  compound  ques- 
tion always  contains  the  imperative  as  well  as  the 
indicative  mood,  and  the  imperative  mood  domi- 
nates the  indicative  or  supplicatory  part  of  the 
question.  Command  always  pre-supposes  sub- 
mission, and  so,  the  sense  being  complete,  the  fall- 
ing inflection  prevails.  A  brief  analysis  will 
prove  this,  thus : 

"Are  you  going  home  ?"    "Yes." 

"Will  you  tell  me  why?"    "Yes." 

"Then,  tell  me."  "Because  it  pleases  me  to  go 
home." 

From  the  analysis  of  the  compound  question  it 
is  seen  that  the  supplicatory  part  of  the  question 
takes  the  rising  inflection  and  the  mandatory 
part  takes  the  falling  inflection ;  and  when  the  in- 

164 


PttrJf  attin   3lttfUrtt0tt 

dicative  and  the  imperative  moods  appear  to- 
gether, as  they  do  in  every  compound  question, 
the  imperative  dominates  the  situation,  and  so  the 
falHng  inflection  results  to  express  the  command. 

Test  these  several  inflections  with  the  word  so 
commonly  in  use  in  asking  for  a  reiteration  of  a 
statement — "Indeed."  With  the  direct  rising  in- 
inflection,  as  thus,  "Indeed?"  we  find  that  it  is 
simply  an  expression  of  an  earnest  desire  for  a 
repetition  of  an  answer  already  given.  The 
same  word  repeated  with  the  direct  downward 
inflection,  as  thus:  "Indeed."  becomes  an  expres- 
sion of  an  earnest  acceptance  of  the  statement  as 
it  is  presented. 

The  same  word  repeated  with  the  simple  rising 
circumflex  inflection,  as  thus:  "Indeed?"  at  once 
expresses  a  double  action  of  the  mind,  asking  for 
information,  and  at  the  same  time  implying  a 
doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  the  statement  just  made. 
With  the  simple  falling  circumflex  inflection,  as 
thus :  "Indeed !"  this  same  word  accepts  the  state- 
ment, but  expresses  surprise  that  it  should  be 
true. 

165 


®I}r  Art  of  Arttng 

And  now,  if  we  apply  the  compound  circumflex 
inflection  to  this  same  word,  thus,  "Indeed?"  or 
again,  as  thus,  "Indeed !"  we  shall  find  that,  while 
the  rising  and  falling  terminations  of  this  wave 
in  the  voice  express  interrogation  and  affirmation 
in  accordance  with  the  principles  of  the  direct 
rising  and  falling  inflections  of  the  voice,  the 
wave  of  this  inflection  expresses  mockery  by  put- 
ting so  much  mental  deliberation  into  the  move- 
ment of  the  voice  as  to  destroy  the  earnestness 
that  always  results  from  strong  feeling. 

A  very  simple  but  excellent  illustration  of  the 
"direct  rising"  and  "direct  falling"  inflections 
may  be  found  in  the  conversation  that  takes  place 
between  Hamlet,  Horatio  and  his  companions  of 
the  watch,  touching  the  appearance  of  the  Ghost. 
Upon  Horatio's  first  statement  that  he  and  his 
companions  have  seen  the  King,  Hamlet's  de- 
ceased father,  Hamlet  is  at  once  stricken  with 
amazement  that  vents  itself  in  a  series  of  ques- 
tions which  would  partake  of  the  characteristic 
circumflex  inflection  expressing  doubt,  and  seek- 
ing further  information  as  to  the  truth  of  the 

166 


apparition;  but,  at  last,  the  truthfulness  of  the 
story  being  admitted,  Hamlet  seeks  by  questions, 
based  upon  comparison,  to  learn  if  the  admitted 
apparition  was  his  father  or  not,  and  thus  pro- 
ceeds to  interrogate : 

Hamlet 
Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night? 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo, 
We  do,  my  lord. 

Hamlet, 

Arm^d,  say  you  ? 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo. 

Arm'd,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

From  top  to  toe  ? 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo, 

My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Hamlet. 

Then  saw  you  not  his  face! 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo. 

O  yes,  my  lord ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 

Hamlet. 

What  look'd  he,  frowningly? 

Horatio. 

A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Hamlet. 

Pale,  or  red? 

Horatio. 
Nay,  very  pale. 

167 


t  Art  0f  Arttng 


Hamlet. 

And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you  ? 

Horatio. 

Most  constantly. 

Hamlet. 

I  would  I  had  been  there. 

Horatio. 

It  would  have  much  amazed  you. 

Hamlet. 
Very  like,  very  like.    Stay'd  it  long  ? 
Horatio. 
While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a  hun- 
dred. 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo. 
Longer,  longer. 
Horatio. 
Not  when  I  saw't. 
Hamlet. 
His  beard  was  grizzled, — No  ? 
Horatio. 
It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life,  a  sable  sil- 
vered. 

Hamlet. 

I  will  watch  to-night ; 

Perchance   'twill  walk  again. 

Here  we  have  a  series  of  questions  and  an- 
swers taking  upon  them  the  "direct  rising"  and 
the  "direct  falling"  inflections  in  accordance  with 
the  principles  enunciated  relative  to  earnest  and 
single  purpose,  and  completeness  or  incomplete- 

168 


Ptttif  VLXth  3ttfUrti0tt 

ness  of  sense;  but,  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  in- 
ter viev^,  where  Horatio  first  tells  Hamlet  of  the 
vision  and  where  Hamlet  asks  for  information 
while  doubting  the  truth  of  what  he  hears,  we 
shall  find  the  double  action  of  the  voice,  as  heard 
in  the  circumflex  inflection,  necessary  to  express 
the  double  action  of  the  mind,  which,  while  it 
seeks  for  information,  seems  to  doubt  the  source 
whence  the  information  is  to  come,  as  thus : 

Horatio. 

My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesternight. 

Hamlet. 

Saw?     Who? 

Horatio. 

My  lord,  the  King,  your  father. 

Hamlet. 

The  King,  my  father! 

Excellent  illustration  of  the  double  action  of 
the  mind  may  be  found  in  the  "Merchant  of 
Venice"  in  a  brief  scene  between  Shylock  and 
Salarino,  wherein  the  language  of  the  Jew  is  full 
of  irony,  scorn  and  contempt  for  his  opponents 
against  whom  he  contends  for  the  legal  right  of 
his  bond  and  the  justice  of  his  claim  to  a  pound 
of  Antonio's  flesh,  because  of  the  Merchant's  in- 

169 


SIIjj?  Art  0f  Arttng 

ability    to    pay    the    three    thousand    borrowed 
ducats.    Meeting  Shylock  in  the  street: 

Salarino. 
.  .  .  But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether  Antonio 
have  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shylock. 
There  I  have  another  bad  match :  a  bankrupt, 
a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the 
Rialto; — a  beggar  that  was  used  to  come  so 
smug  upon  the  mart ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond ! 
he  was  wont  to  call  me  usurer ; — let  him  look  to 
his  bond!  he  was  wont  to  lend  money  for  a 
Christian  courtesy ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

In  this  speech  we  have  a  series  of  direct 
affirmations  expressed  in  several  clauses  and  sen- 
tences, all  taking  the  direct,  downward  inflection 
to  express  the  earnest  determination  and  harsh- 
ness of  the  moving  emotion,  hatred.  But,  in  the 
penultimate  sentence  of  his  reply,  Shylock  chooses 
to  indulge  in  irony  in  the  phrase  "a  Christian 
courtesy,"  and  here  we  find  that  very  powerful 
factor  of  irony,  scorn  and  contempt,  the  down- 
ward circumflex  inflection  coming  into  play  on 
both  the  words  "Christian"  and  "courtesy." 
And  the  reply  that  follows  Salarino's  next  ques- 

170 


tion  is  rich  in  both  the  upward  and  the  downward 
circumflex  inflections. 

Salarino. 

Why,  I  am  sure  if  he  forfeit  thou  wilt  not  talce 
his  flesh.    What's  that  good  for  ? 
Shylock. 

To  bait  fish  withal :  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else 
it  will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced  me 
and  hindered  me  of  half  a  million;  laughed  at 
my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  na- 
tion, thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends, 
heated  mine  enemies !  and  what's  his  reason  ?  I 
am  a  Jew!  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes?  hath  not  a 
Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affec- 
tions, passions?  Is  he  not  fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the 
same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  summer  and 
winter  as  a  Christian  is  ?  If  you  prick  us,  do  we 
not  bleed?  If  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh? 
If  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die?  and  if  you 
wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge?  If  we  are  like 
you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in  that. 
If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his  humil- 
ity? Revenge.  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew, 
what  should  his  sufferance  be  by  Christian  ex- 
ample? Why,  revenge.  The  villany  you  teach 
me  I  will  execute;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  I 
will  better  the  instruction. 

The  double  circumflex  movement  in  the  voice 
is  the  natural  language  of  mockery  and  usually 

171 


®ifp  Art  0f  Arttttg 

exhausts  its  power  of  expression  on  the  single 
tonic  element  of  an  exclamation,  although  it 
sometimes  spreads  itself  over  an  entire  word  or 
phrase,  as 

"Ah         !  Indeed         ! 

Oh        then,  I  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with 
you." 

The  degree  of  an  inflection  of  whatever  kind 
will  always  depend  upon  the  strength  of  the  sen- 
sation. 


172 


Q^im^ 


rr^IME  in  its  broadest  definition  is  a  mental 
•^  recognition  of  passing  events,  from  the 
turning  of  the  earth  on  its  axis  to  the  briefest  in- 
cident in  life.  Time  is  a  mental  condition,  other- 
wise indefinable,  because  unlimited. 

Dramatic  and  Standard  Time. 
It  sometimes  happens,  when  an  actor  is  before 
the  audience,  and  acting,  that  he  gives  a  cue  for 
the  entrance  of  a  fellow  actor,  who,  at  the  time 
the  cue  is  given,  is  standing  at  the  side  of  the 
stage,  waiting,  but  does  not  hear  the  cue  the  mo- 
ment  it  is  delivered.  The  actor  on  the  scene  re- 
peats the  cue,  walking  quickly  up  and  down  the 
stage,  and  then  pauses.  The  actor  on  the  side 
of  the  stage  feels  the  eflFect  of  the  pause,  and 
rushes  on  the  scene,  taking  up  the  dialogue  where 

173 


Wbt  Art  0f  Arttttg 

it  was  broken  by  the  "wait."  The  scene  termi- 
nates, and  immediately  the  two  actors  fall  into  a 
dispute  about  the  time  of  the  "wait."  The  actor 
who  was  on  the  stage  claims  that  the  time  was 
at  least  a  minute  and  a  half,  or  two  minutes  long ; 
while  the  actor  who  causes  the  "wait'*  claims  that 
the  time  of  the  "wait"  was  not  more  than  half  a 
minute.  No  satisfactory  conclusion  is  reached 
until  the  prompter  is  called,  and  when  the  ques- 
tion is  referred  to  him,  he  says  the  time  of  the 
"wait"  was  fifteen  seconds. 

The  actor  on  the  stage  is  in  dramatic  time. 
The  events  of  days  are  passing  in  minutes,  and 
his  mental  action  is  keeping  pace  with  months  of 
events  that  must  pass  in  two  hours  and  a  half  or 
three  hours,  the  allotted  time  of  the  performance. 
The  actor  outside  of  the  scene  is  in  standard  time, 
where  events  are  recorded  by  the  clock;  hence 
the  inability  of  the  two  disputants  to  agree  on  the 
time  without  the  aid  of  the  prompter,  who  is  al- 
ways in  standard  time. 

Time  as  a  factor  in  speech  is  made  up  of  move- 
ment and  pause  of  the  voice,  and  the  gesticula- 

174 


Uiimt 

tions  and  positions  of  the  body  in  representing 
an  emotion ;  and,  like  the  other  factors  of  expres- 
sion, time  depends  upon  the  kind  of  sensation  that 
prompts  to  the  exterior  signs,  by  which  we  recog- 
nize the  emotion.  All  emotions  result  from 
mental  impressions.  If  the  sensation  resulting 
from  the  impression  produce  muscular  tension, 
quick  movement  with  short  pauses,  that  is,  quick 
time,  will  follow ;  but  if  the  sensation  produce  re- 
laxation of  muscle,  then  slow  movement  with 
long  pauses  or  slow  time  will  follow. 

We  cannot  divide  time  in  acting  as  precisely 
as  it  is  divided  in  music ;  nor  is  it  at  all  necessary 
to  the  truthful  representation  of  an  emotion  that 
this  factor  of  the  art  should  be  thus  divided,  since 
we  are  never  called  upon  to  speak  or  act  in  con- 
cert. Indeed,  speaking  and  acting  in  concert, 
that  is,  as  a  unity  of  voice  and  action  in  groups  of 
speakers,  is  destructive  of  the  true  art  of  acting, 
and  as  far  from  true  representation  of  nature  as 
are  the  evolutions  of  soldiers  or  the  gymnastics  of 
a  circus  rider,  or  the  steps  and  poses  of  a  dancer, 
from  the  natural  actions  of  those  who  do  them. 

175 


SIj^  Art  0f  Arttns 

For  the  practical  purpose  of  describing  the 
movement  and  pause  of  an  emotion,  we  may 
divide  time  into  five  degrees  or  different  rates  of 
movement  and  different  lengths  of  pause  which 
shall  approximately  express  all  thought  and  sen- 
sation— 

Moderate  Modcraie 

Quick  Slow 

Quickest  Slowest 

Moderate  time  prevails  in  didactic  and  argu- 
mentative matter,  in  which  the  speaker  aims  at 
mental  conviction  purely.  Moderate  time  will 
therefore  be  made  up  of  that  rate  of  movement 
and  that  length  of  pause  that  will  permit  the 
speaker  to  articulate  properly  and  pronounce  cor- 
rectly, thereby  enabling  the  auditor  to  receive  the 
matter  without  asking  for  a  repetition  of  the 
phrase  or  sentence.  If  the  delivery  of  a  didactic 
discourse  aimed  at  mental  equilibrium  be  so 
rapid  that  the  listener  cannot  apprehend  the 
meaning  of  the  speaker,  then  the  mental  equi- 
librium is  destroyed  and  irritation  and  vexation 
take  possession  of  the  auditor,  and  the  speaker 

176 


Stmr 

fails  in  his  aim.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  deliv- 
ery be  so  slow  and  the  pauses  so  long  that  the  au- 
ditor is  constantly  projecting  his  own  thoughts 
into  the  speaker's  pauses,  again  the  speaker  fails 
in  his  object,  for  the  auditor's  mind  is  giving  off 
instead  of  receiving. 

Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players  affords  a  very 
happy  illustration  of  moderate  time  in  speech. 

When  the  mental  equilibrium  is  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed by  an  exterior  circumstance  that  produces 
a  sensation,  then  there  will  be  a  change  of  time 
and  that  change  will  be  in  keeping  with  the 
nature  of  the  emotion.  If  the  sensation  of  the 
emotion  be  highly  tensive,  as  is  the  case  with  the 
outburst  of  joy,  the  impulsiveness  of  anger,  ter- 
ror, and  fear,  the  movement  will  be  quickest,  the 
pauses,  shortest,  producing  quickest  time. 

Very  excellent  examples  of  "quickest"  time 
may  be  found  in  the  Fifth  Act  of  Macbeth  in  the 
scene  of  anger  and  fear  between  Macbeth  and  the 
Messenger.  The  Messenger,  in  alarm,  brings 
the  news  of  the  English  force,  as  they  approach, 
carrying  boughs  cut  from  Birnam  wood.    Mac- 

177 


SIjF  Art  0f  Arttng 

beth,  turning  abruptly  upon  the  Messenger  as  he 
approaches,  exclaims : 

Macbeth. 
Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue ;  thy  story  quickly. 
Messenger.    (Panting  utterance.) 
Gracious  my  lord, 
I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 
Macbeth. 
Well,  say,  sir. 
Messenger. 
As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macbeth. 

Liar  and  slave ! 

Messenger. 

Let  me  endure  your  wrath  if't  be  not  so. 

Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming; 

I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macbeth. 
If  thou  speakest  false, 
Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive, 
Till  famine  cling  thee :  [slow  time  for  the  rest  of 

the  speech]  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much." 

Quickest  time  also  prevails  in  the  malicious 
joy  of  Shylock,  when  Tubal,  after  his  unsuccess- 
ful searching  for  Jessica,  returns  with  news  that 
Antonio  has  had  an  argosy  wrecked  coming  from 

178 


Tripolis.  In  this  scene  Tubal  speaks  in  moderate 
time  and  quite  deliberately,  which  makes  a  fine 
dramatic  contrast  with  the  impulsiveness  of  Shy- 
lock. 

Tubal. 
Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too :  Antonio,  as  I 
heard  in  Genoa, — 

Shy  lock. 
What,  what,  what?   Ill  luck,  ill  luck? 
TubaL 
— ^hath   an   argosy   cast   away   coming   from 
Tripolis. 

Shylock. 
I  thank  God,  I  thank  God. — Is  it  true?    Is  it 
true  ? 

Tubal. 
I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped 
the  wreck. 

Shylock. 
I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal. — Good  news,  good 
news :  ha !  ha ! — Where !   in  Genoa  ? 
Tubal. 
But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shylock. 
Nay,  that's  true ;  that's  very  true.  Go,  Tubal, 
fee  me  an  officer;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  be- 
fore. I  will  have  the  heart  of  him  if  he  forfeit ; 
for  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make  what  mer- 
chandise I  will.  Go,  go,  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at 
our  synagogue;  go,  good  Tubal;  at  our  syna- 
gogue. Tubal." 

179 


Sllf^  Art  0f  Arttng 

And,  again,  after  Portia's  speech  to  Shylock  in 
the  Court,  terminating  with 

"Down,    therefore,    and   beg    mercy    of   the 
duke," 

the  raillery  of  Gratiano — 

"Beg  that  thou  may'st  have  leave  to  hang  thy- 
self: 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  the  cord. 
Therefore  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state's 
charge," 

would  be  stripped  of  half  its  pungency  if  it  were 
delivered  in  any  other  but  the  quickest  time  com- 
patible with  perfect  articulation  and  correct  pro- 
nunciation, for  it  must  seem  to  be  impulsive. 

Haste  and  alarm  express  themselves  in  quick- 
est time. 

Quick  time  is  the  language  of  all  those  phases 
of  emotions,  in  which  the  first  outburst  is  subdued, 
and  intelligence  controls  the  situation,  keeping 
the  movement  within  the  bounds  of  reason,  as 
mirth,  cheerfulness,  merriment,  gladness,  phases 
of  joy,  or  impatience,  vexation,  irritation,  phases 
of  anger. 

180 


Wxmt 

The  Queen  Mab  speech  of  Mercutio  in  "Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  Gratiano's  speech  to  Antonio  in  the 
first  scene  of  "The  Merchant  of  Venice"  begin- 
ning with  "Let  me  play  the  fool,"  or  the  scene  of 
raillery  between  Benedick  and  Beatrice  in  the 
First  Act  of  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing,"  are 
good  examples. 

Beatrice, 
I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior 
Benedick;  nobody  marks  you. 
Benedick. 
What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain!  are  you  yet 
living  ? 

Beatrice. 
Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die  while  she  hath 
such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  Signior  Benedick? 
Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain  if  you 
come  in  her  presence. 

Benedick, 
Then  is  courtesy  a  turn-coat. — But  it  is  certain 
I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted :  and 
would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a 
hard  heart:  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

Beatrice. 
A  dear  happiness  to  women;  they  would  else 
have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.  I 
thank  God,  and  my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your 
humor  for  that :  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark 
at  a  crow  than  a  man  swear  he  loves  me. 

181 


(5ij^  Art  0f  Arttng 

Benedick, 
God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind !  so 
some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predes- 
tinate scratched  face. 

Beatrice, 
Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse  an  'twere 
such  a  face  as  yours. 

Benedick, 
Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beatrice. 
A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast  of 
yours. 

Benedick. 
I   would   my  horse  had  the   speed   of  your 
tongue,  and  so  good  a  continuer.     But  keep  your 
way  o'  God's  name ;  I  have  done. 
Beatrice. 
You  always    end  with  a  jade's  trick ;  I  know 
you  of  old. 

Again  we  hear  quick  time  in  the  impatience  of 
Hotspur  in  his  reply  to  Mortimer,  touching  the 
tiresomeness  of  Glendower. 

Hotspur, 
O,  he's  as  tedious 
As  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife ; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house: — I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlic  in  a  windmill,  far, 
Than  feed  on  cates  and  have  him  talk  to  me, 
In  any  summer-house  in  Christendom. 

Slow  time  finds  exemplification  in  the  utter- 
182 


ance  of  those  emotions  and  phases  of  emotions 
in  which  the  mind  dominates  the  sensation  and 
feeHng  is  held  in  abeyance  to  mental  action. 

Under  the  effect  of  horror,  while  the  movement 
of  the  voice  in  uttering  words  and  phrases  may  be 
quick,  because  the  action  will  be  spasmodic  and 
the  utterance  explosive,  the  time  must  be  rated 
as  slow  and  even  slowest  because  of  the  length 
of  pause  required  for  the  muscular  system 
to  recupe  after  projecting  a  word  or  phrase.  Fear 
moves  quickly;  but  when  the  element  dread, 
which  may  be  called  waiting  or  listening  fear, 
enters  in,  the  time  is  slow  because  of  the  mental 
action  seeking  to  discover  the  cause  of  fear. 

In  all  of  those  discourses  that  tend  to  bring  the 
mind  to  the  contemplation  of  its  final  cessation  as 
a  worldly  power,  there  is  such  a  combined  action 
of  perception  and  reflection, — of  going  forward 
and  backward  at  the  same  instant,  as  seems  to 
put  a  clog  on  the  movement  of  the  mind  and 
bring  the  action  of  the  voice  down  to  even  less 
than  Moderate  Time,  or  that  time  in  which  we 

183 


ailj^  Art  nf  Arttttg 

speak  of  the  extraordinary  and  continuing  condi- 
tions of  life. 

The  solemnity  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  would  be 
turned  into  ridicule  if  it  were  repeated  in  the 
Moderate  Time  of  an  ordinary  didactic  discourse, 
while  a  lecture  on  the  sciences  would  be  tedious 
beyond  endurance  if  delivered  with  the  Slow 
Time,  one  of  the  most  powerful  factors  in  ex- 
pressing solemnity  and  awe.  The  Moderate 
Time  that  so  truthfully  illustrates  the  didactic 
quality  in  Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players,  would 
entirely  dispel  the  awfulness  of  the  Ghost  and 
convert  the  seriousness  of  the  soliloquy,  "To  be 
or  not  to  be,"  into  a  routine  business  question, 
instead  of  a  profound  contemplation  of  that  some- 
thing after  death  that  fills  the  mind  with  dread — 

"And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of !" 

Slowest  Time  is  one  of  the  factors  of  expres- 
sion that  characterizes  those  emotions  that  relax 
or  paralyze  the  muscular  system,  as  horror,  pro- 
found awe,  amazement,  remorse,  melancholy,  de- 
spair and  dread. 

184 


It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  fix  a  limit  to  the  time 
required  for  the  imitation  of  the  abnormal  relaxa- 
tion that  must  follow  the  abnormal  tension  of 
terror,  joy  and  violent  grief. 

Quickest  Time  may  be  limited  by  the  ability  of 
the  actor  to  articulate  perfectly  and  pronounce 
correctly;  for  a  speed  in  movement  that  would 
destroy  the  form  of  the  words  would  defeat  the 
intention  of  the  actor,  by  rendering  his  conception 
of  the  character  unintelligible.  But  the  slowest 
time  that  may  be  used  in  representing  an  emo- 
tion must  depend  upon  the  judgment  of  the  actor 
in  adapting  dramatic  time  to  the  limits  of  the 
standard  time  in  which  the  play  is  performed. 
The  dramatic  incidents  of  months  and  years  are 
represented  in  a  play  on  the  stage,  in  a  time  not 
exceeding  three  or  three  and  a  half  hours. 

In  real  life  a  shock  of  terror  will  sometimes 
stop  the  normal  action  of  thought  and  speech  for 
hours ;  and  when,  at  length,  the  mind  resumes  its 
functions,  days  may  pass  before  the  muscular 
system  regains  its  normal  action.  It  will  there- 
fore require  excellent  discretion  properly  to  adapt 

185 


®lf^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

the  actual  time  of  an  emotion  and  its  after  effects 
to  the  dramatic  situation. 

I  have  known  an  actor  to  devote  eight  minutes 
to  the  deHvery  of  Hamlet's  soliloquy,  "To  be  or 
not  to  be  ?"  and  I  have  seen  an  actress  represent- 
ing terror  so  great  that  it  produced  insanity  and 
resulted  in  death,  recover  from  the  shock  and  re- 
sume the  normal  functions  of  voice  and  gesticula- 
tion in  ten  seconds. 

The  movement  of  the  soliloquy  was  too  slow; 
and  the  recovery  from  the  shock  of  terror  too 
quick.  The  soliloquy  was  tedious,  and  the  repre- 
sentation of  terror  in  that  special  case  ridiculous. 
Time  in  acting  is  the  last  factor  mastered  by  the 
dramatic  artist.  His  anxiety,  a  mental  condition 
made  up  of  hope  and  fear,  commonly  called 
"nervousness,''  resulting  from  his  unprepared 
condition  to  meet  the  responsibility  of  the  charac- 
ter that  he  has  assumed,  his  fear  of  adverse  criti- 
cism by  the  audience,  or  his  overwhelming 
egotism  struggling  for  popular  approval  of  his 
personal  qualities,  produce  a  mental  strain  and 
muscular  tension  that  hurries  the  movement,  and 

186 


Exmt 

shortens  the  pauses  in  the  serious,  sublime,  and 
grand  situations  of  the  drama;  and  so  destroys, 
by  cutting  short  the  effect  of  all  the  other  parts 
of  expression. 

It  is  only  by  studying  the  movement  of  emo- 
tions in  nature  and  by  large  practice  in  adapting 
emotional  or  dramatic  time  to  the  standard  time 
of  a  performance  that  the  actor  will  be  able  to 
preserve  that  unity  of  time  throughout  the  entire 
play  that  serves  as  one  of  the  strongest  effects  in 
giving  to  the  performance  a  likeness  to  nature. 
Study  the  real  time  of  mirth  and  merriment,  and 
of  awe  and  horror  in  nature.  Then  take  the 
mirthful,  merry  "Queen  Mab"  speech  of  Mer- 
cutio,  and  the  awe-inspiring  and  horrible  inter- 
view between  Hamlet  and  the  Ghost,  and  try  the 
interchange  movements  and  pauses  of  these  emo- 
tions, and  learn  how  the  absence  of  true  time  in 
the  art  of  acting  may  entirely  destroy  the  resem- 
blance to  nature. 

This  comparison  will  perhaps  help  the  student 
to  a  just  appreciation  of  time  in  his  art. 

187 


t  Art  0f  Artitig 

Accent  and  Emphasis. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  original  use 
of  these  words,  it  will  be  admitted  that  we  now 
understand  "accent"  to  mean  the  application 
of  an  increased  loudness  of  voice  upon  a  given 
syllable  in  a  word,  in  accordance  with  established 
best  usage  of  the  language.  A  standard  lexicon 
will  therefore  be  at  all  times  an  authority  on  the 
accentuation  of  a  word. 

Emphasis  has  come  to  mean  the  change  of  any 
factor  of  expression  upon  a  word,  a  phrase,  or  a 
sentence  for  the  purpose  of  presenting  clearly 
and  truthfully  the  logical  and  emotional  cause  of 
the  word,  phrase,  or  sentence.  Emphasis  there- 
fore implies  a  change  in  mode  of  utterance,  qual- 
ity of  voice,  force,  stress,  time  or  inflection,  as  the 
nature  of  the  idea  or  mental  picture  to  be  ex- 
pressed, may  demand  on  the  instant  of  presenta- 
tion. 

Whether  emphasis  be  interrogatory,  declama- 
tory, or  antithetical,  will  depend  upon  the  inflec- 
tions of  the  voice. 

188 


(&^Btntt  unh  IficBi^ 


l^Jf  AN  in  his  mundane  existence  is  a  compound 
'^^'^  being.  He  is  made  up  of  two  distinct  and 
yet  inseparable  parts — the  physical  and  the 
mental.  Through  the  physical,  by  the  operation 
of  the  five  senses,  he  receives  all  impressions 
from  his  environments;  and  the  nature  of  those 
environments,  from  the  beginning  of  life  until 
that  period  when  the  mind  ceases  to  be  receptive, 
will  give  quality  to  his  actions. 

Perception,  comparison,  and  judgment  consti- 
tute the  base  of  the  mind.  As  all  the  action  of 
comparison  and  judgment  go  on  within  the  secret 
recesses  of  the  brain,  it  follows  that  impressions 
move  from  circumference  to  center,  and  might 
there  be  hidden,  were  it  not  that  the  machinery 
of  the  human  body  is  so  sensitive  that  the  force 

189 


®Ij?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

of  an  impression  produces  reaction,  and  expres- 
sion is  a  result  that  gives  character  and  name  to 
the  emotion. 

Comparison  and  judgment  may  present  their 
work  through  the  voice  only;  but  whenever  there 
is  a  strong  sensation,  the  entire  muscular  system 
will  be  engaged  in  presenting  the  effect  of  the  im- 
pression, and  the  outward  actions,  called  gesture 
and  pose,  will  result  from  the  surplus  impres- 
sional  force  generated  over  and  above  the  necessi- 
ties of  vocalizing  the  thought  or  sensation. 

Gesticulation  and  position  include  all  the 
actions  and  all  the  postures  of  the  entire  human 
body,  whatever  may  be  the  exterior  circum- 
stances prompting  to  action  or  repose;  and  they 
are  therefore  a  part  of  expression.  Because 
these  factors  of  expression  may  be  truthfully 
suggestive  even  where  the  vernacular  of  the 
speaker  is  not  understood,  they  constitute  a  part 
of  natural  language. 

Just  as  one  may  recognize  distress  in  the  vocal- 
ity  and  utterance  of  a  sob  or  a  groan,  or  mirth 
and  gladness  in  laughter,  so  may  one  recognize 

190 


mental  intents  and  physical  sensations  in  the 
gestures  and  poses  of  the  body.  All  human  ac- 
tion must  be  the  outcome  of  mental  impressions 
and  physical  sensations ;  and  as  the  impression  is 
always  an  effect  of  some  exterior  circumstance, 
past  or  present,  it  will  readily  be  seen  that 
gesture,  like  any  other  part  of  expression,  should 
not  be  without  cause.  There  can  be  no  motion 
without  force.  In  gesture  the  force  results  from 
impression ;  and  action  is  a  result  of  force  in  mo- 
tion. 

The  gesticulations  and  poses  of  a  dancer  when 
gracefully  made  and  in  their  place,  are  delight- 
ful; so,  too,  the  gestures  and  attitude  of  the 
circus  rider  when  executed  with  skill,  and  in  the 
circus  ring,  are  pleasing;  but  the  grace  of  the 
dancer  would  not  make  her  evolutions  acceptable 
in  a  private  drawing-room,  nor  would  the  skill 
and  dexterity  of  the  circus  rider,  make  him  an 
agreeable  companion  in  a  group  of  gentlemen  on 
the  road.  There  is  a  time  and  a  place  for  every- 
thing. That  time  and  place  in  gesture  and  posi- 
tion may  be  summed  up  in  the  word  "fitness  ;*' 

191 


JUift  Art  0f  Arttng 

hence  Shakespeare's  advice  to  the  players : 

"Suit  the  action  to  the  word  and  the  word  to 
the  action." 

The  gestures  and  positions  which  would  illus- 
trate the  heroic  emotions  of  Macbeth  and  Lady 
Macbeth  would  be  bombastic  and  ill  suited  to 
characterize  the  domestic  emotions  of  Sir  Peter 
and  Lady  Teazle. 

Grace  is  made  up  of  beauty  and  strength, — 
strength  in  the  position  and  beauty  in  the  line  of 
action ;  but  characteristic  gestures  are  not  always 
graceful,  and  the  actor  who  is  always  striving  to 
please  his  audience  by  gracefulness  in  pose  and 
gesture  is  as  far  from  the  truth  of  dramatic  art 
as  the  one  who  is  always  struggling  for  sym- 
pathy and  approval  by  a  constant  use  of  pure  oro- 
tund quality  of  voice,  made  musical  by  the  cres- 
cendo and  diminuendo  effect  of  a  prevailing 
median  stress.  Such  people  are  not  actors  in  the 
sense  of  impersonators  of  character  and  illustra- 
tors of  emotions;  they  are  simply  "performers," 
and  they  are  agreeable  or  disagreeable  to  the 
public  according  to  the  attractiveness  or  unat- 

192 


tractiveness  of  their  own  personal  peculiarities 
and  wardrobe.  Such  people  generally  have  a 
butterfly  existence,  and  are  to  be  found  in  their 
old  age  like  the  cocoon  of  that  once  attractive  in- 
sect, fastened  in  a  garret.  Art  always  repays  the 
disrespect  of  thoughtless  youth  by  its  abandon- 
ment of  age.  It  is  asserted  that  actors  are  suc- 
cessful without  art — that  is,  successful  in  collect- 
ing money.  It  does  not  follow  that  because  a 
man  has  acquired  wealth  through  buying  and 
selling  theatrical  performances,  that  he  is  there- 
fore a  dramatic  artist.  He  is  simply  a  successful 
financier.  An  open  hand  lying  supine  for  receiv- 
ing, and  a  firmly  closed  hand  retreating  behind 
the  body  for  retaining,  would  be  the  only  gestures 
necessary  for  this  kind  of  character. 

Just  as  too  many  words  in  a  sentence  will  ob- 
scure the  thought,  so  do  false  gestures  destroy 
true  expression  in  acting. 

There  are  some  positions  and  gestures  that  are 
so  common  that  all  people  readily  understand 
their  meaning.  For  example,  the  position  of  firm- 
ness and  strength  expressing  the  staying  power 

193 


QIIj^  Art  0f  Acting 

of  the  man  is  seen  in  the  attitude  of  the  well- 
trained  soldier  under  the  word  of  command  "At- 
tention!" The  body  erect,  the  shoulders  held 
back  and  at  equal  height,  the  hands  hanging 
down  naturally  and  close  to  the  body,  the  head 
erect  without  restraint,  the  chin  tending  towards 
the  neck  without  covering  it,  and  the  eyes  held 
in  such  a  position  as  to  strike  the  ground  at  about 
fifteen  paces  forward,  the  heels  on  the  same  line 
near  together  and  the  feet  so  turned  out  as  to  re- 
present an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  This  pos- 
ition not  only  expresses  strength  but  the  body  is 
in  readiness  to  move  in  any  direction. 

Repose  of  body  is  expressed  by  simply  throw- 
ing the  weight  of  the  body  on  one  leg,  the  feet 
remaining  in  the  same  position  while  the  knee  of 
the  opposite  leg  is  relaxed  or  bent  a  little.  Mov- 
ing the  released  foot  forward  will  express 
aggressiveness,  while  a  step  to  the  rear  must 
mean  retreat.  Each  foot  may  in  turn  retreat  or 
advance  laterally  according  to  the  governing  cir- 
cumstance. 

The  extension  of  any  of  these  positions  will 

194 


tBtntt  unh  Ij^xtBt 


depend  upon  the  force  of  the  emotional  sensa- 
tion of  which  the  action  is  an  outcome. 

The  gracefulness  of  these  poses  will  depend  up- 
on the  suppleness  and  pliability  of  the  muscular 
system.  Six  months'  training  under  a  competent 
army  drill-master  and  an  expert  fencing  master, 
with  lessons  in  dancing,  will  put  the  pupil  in  the 
way  of  developing  towards  perfection  in  the 
movement  of  the  feet  and  lower  limbs. 

The  movements  and  poses  of  the  hands  and 
arms  are  not  only  more  numerous  than  those  of 
the  feet  and  lower  limbs,  but  they  are  more 
definite  in  describing,  limiting  and  emphasizing 
impressions  and  sensations,  and,  next  to  facial 
action,  the  hands  and  arms  are  the  most  powerful 
assistant  to  artificial  language  in  expressing  emo- 
tions. 

It  is  true  that  a  steady  circular  movement  of 
the  hand  and  arm,  that  may  be  called  graceful,  is 
always  more  pleasing  in  the  language  of  gesti- 
culation than  is  the  straight  or  angular  move- 
ment of  the  same  limbs.  The  circle  or  any  seg- 
ment   of    a    circle    suggests    continuity;    while 

195 


Sljr  Art  0f  Arttng 

straight  lines  and  angles  suggest  termination. 
The  mind  does  not  like  to  contemplate  limitations. 
It  is  only  gratified  by  expansion  and  continuity. 
Hence  the  circular  movement  in  gesture. 

But  to  be  at  all  times  pleasing  is  not  the  prov- 
ince of  dramatic  art.  Its  best  results  are  ob- 
tained when  it  presents  a  truthful  resemblance  to 
nature ;  and  nature  in  human  form  is  not  always 
graceful.  The  grace  or  awkwardness  of  the 
gesticulations  of  the  hand  must  therefore  depend 
upon  its  proper  application  to  the  dramatic  char- 
acter that  the  artist  may  be  illustrating.  How- 
ever graceful  or  awkward  the  movement  by 
which  the  position  is  reached,  the  hand  lying 
supine  and  open  is  the  hand  of  supplication,  and, 
whether  raised  toward  zenith  or  dropped  toward 
nadir,  or  sustained  horizontally  on  a  line  with  the 
horizon,  it  always  asks  for  something,  and  this 
gesture  may  be  emphasized  by  adding  to  it  the 
same  action  and  pose  of  the  other  hand. 

The  climax  of  supplication  is  expressed  by 
clasping  the  hands  and  holding  them  thus  united 
in  the  direction  of  the  object  or  power  suppli- 

196 


cated.  Humiliation  and  supplication  are  ex- 
pressed by  this  same  gesture  accompanied  by 
the  bowed  head.  Humiliation  may  be  empha- 
sized by  falling  on  the  knees.  The  extreme  of 
humiliation  and  supplication  is  expressed  by  fall- 
ing in  a  relaxed  condition  to  the  ground,  the  body 
prone  and  the  hands  clasped.  Such  extreme 
humiliation  conveys  the  idea  of  great  shame,  or 
unlimited  submission  to  the  governing  circum- 
stance. 

The  hand  held  prone,  the  palm  outward  from 
the  body,  is  the  hand  of  rejection  or  repression. 
It  is  never  mistaken  for  an  invitation  to  advance 
toward  the  speaker ;  and  whether  the  gesture  ex- 
tend upward  toward  the  sky  or  downward  toward 
the  earth,  or  the  arm  lie  horizontally  with  the 
hand  raised  perpendicularly  from  the  wrist,  so 
that  the  tips  of  the  fingers  point  upwards,  this 
position  of  the  hand  always  rejects  or  represses* 

The  hand  of  rejection,  like  the  hand  of  suppli- 
cation, whatever  pose  it  may  hold,  will  be  em- 
phasized or  strengthened  in  its  expression  by  a 
like  action  and  position  of  the  other  hand. 

197 


Slff  Art  0f  Arttng 

When  the  second,  third  and  fourth  fingers  are 
partly  closed,  but  not  shut  upon  the  palm,  the 
forefinger  stretched  out,  the  thumb  inclining  to- 
wards but  not  touching  the  tip  of  the  second  fin- 
ger, the  forefinger  pointing  in  any  direction,  it 
may  be  called  the  index  or  noting  hand ;  because 
it  seems  to  individualize  or  separate  the  objects 
under  visual  or  mental  contemplation.  This  ges- 
ture from  its  very  nature  cannot  be  emphasized 
by  doubling  the  number  of  hands  or  marking 
fingers,  but  its  force  in  expression  may  be  in- 
creased by  a  repetition  of  its  action  through  the 
very  small  arc  of  a  circle  perpendicular  to  the 
horizon,  the  elevating  and  depressing  action  ex- 
tending only  from  the  wrist  to  the  tip  of  the  fore- 
finger. By  turning  the  hand  to  prone  or  supine, 
we  may  reject  or  ask  for  the  thing  pointed  at.  The 
index  or  noting  hand  and  all  of  its  actions  belong 
to  that  class  of  emotions  in  which  mentality  dom- 
inates the  situation. 

Impatience  and  even  indignation  may  be  ex- 
pressed by  shaking  the  index  finger  at  the  cause 
of  the  emotion ;  but  anger  doubles  up  and  clenches 

198 


the  fist  and  shakes  it  at  the  cause  as  if  threatening 
punishment. 

Folding  the  arms  upon  the  chest  with  the  head 
erect,  the  feet  and  lower  limbs  in  repose,  will  ex- 
press dignity  and  firmness,  while  the  head  bent 
forward,  the  arms  remaining  folded,  and  the  feet 
and  lower  limbs  in  repose,  will  express  self-com- 
munion upon  worldly  affairs.  The  head  thrown 
back,  the  face  looking  upward,  indicates  specu- 
lation and  reflection  upon  imaginary  and  ideal 
subjects.  Th^  direct  raising  and  lowering  of 
the  head  backward  and  forward,  as  described  by 
the  familiar  term  "nodding  the  head,"  expresses 
affirmation  and  always  gives  emphasis  to  the 
word  "yes." 

The  pivotal  movement  of  the  head  from  side 
to  side,  direct,  commonly  called  the  "shaking  of 
the  head,"  expresses  negation  and  gives  emphasis 
to  the  word  "no."  The  impatience  of  the  speak- 
er is  sometimes  combined  with  the  affirmation  or 
negation  by  a  final  short  jerky  movement  of  the 
head  in  either  the  "nod"  or  the  "shake;"  but  the 
oblique  movement  of  the  head,  either  nodding  or 

199 


®I;^  Art  0f  Artittg 

shaking,  is  the  language  of  defiance  or  threaten- 
ing anger. 

We  cannot  imagine  a  hero  or  a  heroine,  Ham- 
let or  Beatrice,  for  instance,  without  a  graceful 
mind;  and  we  always  look  to  find  bodily  grace 
harmonizing  with  the  mental  conditions.  There- 
fore, all  heroic  gestures  should  be  sweeping, 
graceful  movements  of  the  hand  and  arm  in  cir- 
cular form  from  the  shoulder  and  the  final  blow 
of  the  gesture  should  be  delivered  with  a  quick- 
ened action  from  the  wrist.  This  final  action 
expresses  the  positive  knowledge — the  strength 
of  the  speaker — and  is  one  of  the  most  truthful 
signs  that  distinguish  the  artist  from  the  novice. 
Graceful  gesture  and  pose  can  only  be  achieved 
by  actual  practice.  The  infantryman  may  learn 
to  march  by  sitting  on  a  horse's  back  as  readily 
as  the  student  of  dramatic  art  may  learn  gesture 
and  pose  by  theorizing  on  the  beauties  of  dra- 
matic art. 

Among  all  of  the  outward  exponents  of  in- 
ward thought  and  sensation,  the  face  is  at  once 
the  most  clear  and  positive  in  its  expressions,  the 

200 


most  commonly  observed  as  an  indicator  of  char- 
acter, the  most  easily  understood,  but  it  is  also  the 
most  difficult  to  train  into  subjection  to  dramatic 
art.  If  it  be  true  that  the  face  becomes  the  map  of 
the  mind,  on  which  the  skillful  observer  may  read 
from  the  permanently  fixed  lines  and  every  vary- 
ing muscular  changes,  then  is  it  not  clear  that 
the  directed  effort  to  make  such  contractions  and 
movements  of  the  facial  muscles  will,  at  first, 
present  the  conscious  mentality  of  the  directing 
force,  and  so  express  an  adulterated  or  compound 
emotion  instead  of  simple  love,  joy,  anger,  or 
grief,  as  the  case  might  be?  Just  as  when  an 
actor,  in  saying  "Good  morning.  Miss  B.  I  am 
delighted  to  see  you  V  turns  his  face  full  front  to 
the  audience,  while  he  pulls  up  his  shirt  collar, 
or  pulls  down  his  shirt  cuffs,  he  is  really  saying  to 
the  public,  while  seemingly  addressing  his  fellow 
artist — "How  do  I  look?  Observe  my  style!" 
This  compound  expression  on  the  part  of  the 
actor  always  divides  the  mental  force  of  the  pub- 
lic and  reduces  the  effect,  if  it  does  not  entirely 
destroy  the  truth  of  the  author's  situation,  or  ob- 

201 


®I|?  Art  nf  Arttttg 

scure  it  by  the  egotistical  pride  of  the  actor. 

If  it  be  true  that  all  impressions  that  come  into 
the  mind  must  look  out  of  the  face  through  either 
permanent  or  transient  lines,  then  it  will  follow 
that  if  the  thoughts  of  an  author's  dramatic  crea- 
tures can  be  taken  in  by  the  actor,  they  will  be 
conducted  through  the  nerve  sensation  to  every 
part  of  the  face  just  as  would  be  his  own 
thoughts  and  they  will  give  to  his  acting  all  the 
facial  expression  of  which  he  is  capable.  The 
truth  of  the  actor's  facial  expression  will  depend 
upon  the  sensitiveness  of  his  nerves,  the  pliability 
of  his  muscles,  and  the  intensity  of  his  applica- 
tion. These  conditions  can  be  developed  and 
controlled  by  practice — a  very  subtle  effect  to 
train  facial  muscles  by  psychological  force,  and 
where  the  conditions  are  not  inherent,  it  requires 
many  years  of  actual  practice  to  achieve  any  de- 
gree of  perfection. 

It  will  require  but  little  thought  on  the  part  of 
the  student  to  know  that  the  perfection  of  this 
branch  of  his  art  will  demand  great  power  of 
mental  abstraction  and  self-abnegation;  but  it  is 

202 


worth  the  study.  Truthful  facial  expression  is 
the  last  achievement  of  the  art,  and  the  most  per- 
fect distinguishing  sign  between  the  novice  and 
the  artist. 

To  acquire  a  positive  knowledge  of  all  the  ex- 
pressive gesticulations  of  the  muscles  of  the  face 
through  process  of  observation,  memory  and 
comparison,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  any  one 
man's  time  and  capacity.  Think  of  the  unlim- 
ited changes  of  between  fifty  and  sixty  muscles 
of  the  face  under  nerve  force  generated  by  im- 
pressions from  ever-changing  circumstances? 
One  might  as  well  attempt  to  count  the  stars, 
knowing  the  while  that  untold  numbers  exist 
whose  light  has  not  yet  reached  the  earth. 

It  is  true  that  some  of  the  gesticulations  and 
poses  of  the  face,  like  the  gesticulations  and  poses 
of  the  body,  legs,  arms  and  hands,  have  been  ob- 
served and  sufficiently  well  described  to  make  the 
study  of  great  service  to  actors;  but  there  is,  as 
yet,  no  perfect  "art  to  find  the  mind's  construc- 
tion in  the  face." 

Even  Lavater,  after  a  life-time  of  study,  was 

203 


®ln^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

unable  to  leave  it  as  an  accepted  science  and  Dar- 
win, after  world-wide  observations  made  upon 
men  and  every  species  of  animal  that  bear  resem- 
blance to  man,  has  made  but  few  descriptions  of 
facial  expression. 

The  gesticulations  of  the  face  may  be  divided 
into  three  parts — the  movements  of  the  muscles 
of  the  forehead — the  movements  of  the  eyes — the 
movements  of  the  lips,  mouth  and  lower  jaw.  Al- 
though these  several  parts  of  the  face,  under  the 
influence  of  sensations  from  extreme  impressions, 
act  conjunctively  in  expression,  yet,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  purely  mental  force,  they  may  and  do 
act  entirely  independently  of  each  other.  A  man 
may  contract  the  frontal  sinus  horizontally  and 
lift  the  eyebrows  in  an  affectation  of  surprise, 
without  moving  the  eyes  or  opening  the  mouth, 
because  mentality  dominates ;  but  in  genuine  sur- 
prise the  eyes  expand  and  the  mouth  is  opened. 
The  difference  between  an  agreeable  and  dis- 
agreeable surprise  is  most  clearly  denoted  in  the 
action  of  the  lips  and  lower  jaw.  The  agreeable 
surprise  pulls  up  the  corners  of  the  mouth  in  the 

204 


form  of  laughter,  while  the  disagreeable  is  ex- 
pressed by  the  drooping  of  the  corners  of  the 
mouth,  and  the  extreme  falling  of  the  jaw. 

Close  attention  is  expressed  by  wrinkling  the 
forehead,  horizontally,  opening  the  eyes  to  the 
fullest  extent  without  straining,  and  holding  the 
face  directly  toward  the  speaker;  but  if  the  face 
be  turned  a  little  to  the  right,  or  to  the  left,  the 
symptoms  of  deafness  or  difficulty  of  hearing  at 
once  become  visible,  and  the  wrinkles  at  once 
change  to  vertical  lines  between  the  eyebrows. 

The  drawing  down  of  the  eyebrows,  the  con- 
traction of  the  frontal  sinus  in  oblique  wrinkles, 
and  the  contraction  of  the  corrugator  supercilii, 
making  the  vertical  wrinkle  between  the  eye- 
brows, expresses  strong  mental  action.  The  eyes 
are  sometimes  partly  and  sometimes  quite  closed, 
as  if  to  make  the  abstraction  greater  or  more  per- 
fect, by  shutting  out  the  surrounding  objects. 
Where  the  mental  action  is  very  intense,  the 
head  is  generally  pulled  down  and  forward  by 
the  muscles  of  the  neck,  in  sympathy  with  the 
muscles  of  the  face. 

205 


®lli>  Art  0f  Arttns 

The  frequent  contracting  of  the  frontal  sinus 
and  the  movement  of  the  eyebrows  up  and  down 
(a  habit  common  among  novices  and  indifferent 
actors)  mean  nothing  but  an  affectation  on  the 
part  of  the  actor. 

This  action  of  the  forehead  and  eyebrows  is 
destructive  to  expression  rather  than  assistant 
thereto,  because  the  mechanism  is  so  apparent 
that  it  looks  like  the  deliberativeness  of  mentality 
in  the  field  of  impulsive  emotion. 

If  the  eye  be  regarded  as  the  show  window  of 
the  individual  mentality,  we  shall  be  able  to  un- 
derstand the  origin  of  such  expressions  as  "a 
sharp  eye,"  "a  dull  eye,"  "a  pleasant  eye,"  "a 
bad  eye,"  and  many  other  descriptive  expressions 
used  to  name  the  character  of  the  man  or  woman 
whose  whole  individuality  seems  to  be  on  exhi- 
bition in  this  window  of  the  mind. 

The  condition  of  the  eye  and  its  action  are  first 
in  attracting  attention  to  facial  expression,  and 
yet  the  movements  of  the  eyes  are  very  few. 
The  eyes  can  look  directly  in  front,  they  can  look 
up,  they  can  look  down,  and  they  can  look  oblique- 

206 


ly ;  but  all  of  their  movements  must  be  conjointly 
;  in  the  same  direction.  Any  opposition  in  the 
movement  of  the  eyes  simply  expresses  physical 
deformity  and  not  emotion  or  mental  action.  All 
of  the  movements  above  mentioned  are  subject 
to  volition ;  but  one  of  the  most  powerful  factors 
in  the  expression  of  the  eyes  is  the  expansion  and 
contraction  of  its  pupil,  showing  the  degree 
rather  than  the  kind  of  action,  and  always  result- 
ing from  sensations  not  immediately  under  men- 
tal control. 

Hence  we  hear  the  expression,  "How  bright 
your  eyes  are  to-night !"  or  "How  dull  you  look. 
What's  the  matter?'' 

In  earnest  attention,  simply  for  the  purpose  of 
receiving,  the  eye  is  fixed  directly  on  the  speaker, 
and  the  steadiness  with  which  it  is  held  there 
becomes  an  indicator,  to  the  speaker,  of  the 
amount  of  interest  that  he  is  awakening  in  the 
mind  of  his  auditor.  If  the  auditor  be  called 
upon  for  mental  labor  in  digesting  the  speaker's 
words,  and  preparing  a  reply,  then  the  eyes  are 
sometimes  closed  and  the  head  thrown  backward ; 

207 


®lf^  Art  0f  Arting 

or  it  may  be  thrown  forward  and  the  eyes  partly 
.closed,  either  position  showing  abstraction  from 
surrounding  objects,  while  the  entire  body  as- 
sumes a  listening  attitude.  To  be  a  good  listener 
is  one  of  the  difficult  parts  of  the  art  of  acting. 
Sometimes  the  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the  actor 
touching  the  dramatic  situation,  in  which  he  is 
engaged,  or  personal  vanity  because  of  his  su- 
perior professional  position,  makes  him  move 
about  the  stage,  or  find  something  to  do  quite 
irrelevant  to  the  time  and  place,  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  the  attention  from  the  lesser 
artist,  who  is,  by  reason  of  his  position  in  the 
play,  a  central  figure  in  the  scene. 

This  bringing  outside  superiority  into  dramatic 
situations  is  bad  art.  No  true  artist  will  ever  be- 
tray such  a  weakness,  and  no  good  dramatic  di- 
rector will  give  place  to  it  in  his  work. 

Continual  moving  of  the  eyes  is  the  language 
of  a  mental  perturbation  that  will  not  permit  the 
auditor  to  be  merely  receptive  in  listening. 

When  the  mind  looks  out  into  the  field  of  im- 
agination for  the  contemplation,  subjectively,  of 

208 


the  beautiful,  the  grand,  and  the  sublime  in  na- 
ture, the  eye  looks  upward,  as  if  the  physical 
vision,  striving  to  keep  pace  with  the  mental  vis- 
ion, would  reach  into  space  beyond  the  limits 
of  its  natural  surroundings.  The  ecstasy  of  all 
those  emotions  that  come  from  impressions  which 
produce  exhilarating  sensations,  elevating  the 
mind  and  lifting  it  above  the  plane  of  work-a-day 
life,  as  love,  joy,  hope,  adoration,  and  other  benev- 
olent emotions,  turn  the  eyes  upward  with  a  look 
of  supplication  that  seems  to  say  "Help  me,  all 
you  powers  above,"  to  realize  this  seeming  good. 

In  anger  and  jealousy,  the  eye  is  constantly  in 
motion,  looking  out  on  all  sides  as  if  on  guard 
against  an  attack.  In  hatred,  which  is  settled, 
determined  anger,  the  eyes  have  a  fixed  and  sul- 
len look,  as  if  fully  prepared  for  revenge,  and  only 
awaiting  the  opportunity  for  executing  their  plot. 
The  plane  of  action  is  the  horizontal,  and  they  are 
opened  as  widely  as  the  contraction  of  the  cor- 
rugator  supercilii  and  the  lowering  of  the  brows 
will  permit. 

In  shame,  humiliation,  mortification,  despair, 

209 


afif^  Art  of  Arttttg 

remorse,  despondency,  melancholy,  and,  indeed, 
in  all  sensations  that  relax  the  muscles  and  de- 
press self-love,  the  eyes  look  downward,  and  the 
lids  droop,  as  if  to  shut  out  from  vision  the  in- 
jured as  well  as  the  injurious  cause. 

The  movements  of  the  eyes  from  side  to  side, 
stealing  impressions,  sometimes  called  "side-long 
glances,"  are  simply  secretive  in  their  nature, 
and  express  a  desire  to  see  without  being  ob- 
served. While  the  head  remains  motionless, 
whatever  may  be  the  mental  condition  of  the  ob- 
server, the  expression  is  merely  secretive;  but 
when  the  head  turns  slightly  toward  the  object 
and  the  eye-lids  droop,  while  the  eyes  look 
askance,  the  expression  is  contempt  for  the  ob- 
ject of  vision. 

There  is  very  little  action  in  the  nose.  There 
is  merely  the  expansion  and  contraction  of  the 
muscles,  opening  and  closing  the  nostrils,  which 
denote  intensity  and  strength  of  feeling  rather 
than  mark  or  express  any  special  sensation. 

A  prominent,  well-formed  nose  is  a  valuable 
feature  in  an  actor's  face.     A  too  large  or  irregu- 

210 


larly  formed  nose  will  always  prevent  the  actor 
from  concealing  his  personality,  while  a  small 
nose,  though  it  may  make  the  face  flat  and  weak 
in  expression,  may  be  built  up  for  the  stage. 
There  is  nothing  that  so  quickly  destroys  personal 
identity  as  a  change  in  the  form  and  size  of  the 
nose. 

Characteristic  forms  of  the  nose  will  be  more 
fully  considered  in  a  chapter  on  ''make-up." 

The  mouth,  the  lips,  and  the  lower  jaw  are 
full  of  gesticulation  and  their  poses  are  wonder- 
fully expressive. 

The  upper  lip  curls  in  scorn,  irony  and  sar- 
casm. Raillery  adds  laughter  to  the  scornful 
curl.  In  grief  both  lips  tremble,  and  the  corners 
of  the  mouth  droop. 

In  surprise,  which  is  always  an  expression  of 
ignorance,  the  face  takes  upon  itself  a  look  of  in- 
quiry, the  lips  part,  the  eyes  open,  the  eyebrows 
are  lifted  up,  and  the  forehead  is  wrinkled  hori- 
zontally. 

In  wonder  and  amazement,  which  are  greater 
degrees  of  this  same  emotion,  the  jaw  drops  and 

211 


®If?  Art  0f  Arttng 

the  mouth  opens  still  wider.  And  if  the  mystery 
which  converts  surprise  into  amazement  and 
wonder  remain  unsolved,  until  the  thinking  facul- 
ties recover  from  the  first  blow  of  surprise,  then 
fear  enters  into  amazement  and  wonder,  and 
forces  the  individual  to  thoughts  of  personal  safe- 
ty, and  at  once  there  comes  a  contraction  between 
the  eyebrows  perpendicular  to  the  lines  made  by 
surprise. 

Terror  increases  the  action  of  all  of  the  gestic- 
ulations above  described,  and  makes  the  whole 
muscular  system  of  the  face  and  throat  more  ten- 
sive, so  that  control  of  the  voice  is  lost;  and  if 
there  be  any  vocal  effort  it  will  result  in  a  shriek. 

Horror,  while  it  distends  the  eyes,  inflates  the 
nostrils  and  drops  the  lower  jaw,  paralyzes  and 
relaxes  the  entire  muscular  system,  shaking  it  as 
with  an  ague.  The  voice  may  be  a  spasmodic 
whisper,  or  it  may  be  a  bellow;  and  the  tongue, 
lips,  and  lower  jaw  refuse  to  perform  the  office  of 
articulation.  The  effort  to  speak  in  extreme 
horror,  produces  only  an  aspiration,  or  an  as- 
sumed howl  that  would  be  entirely  undistinguish- 

212 


(&tBttxxt  anil  l^taat 

able  even  among  one's  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ances. 

Hatred,  which  is  chronic  anger,  or  anger  that 
has  been  carried  long  enough  to  have  in  it  a  men- 
tal determination  to  seek  revenge,  sets  the  jaws 
firmly,  compresses  the  lips  and  draws  down  the 
corners  of  the  mouth  and,  through  the  thin  lips, 
and  wide  rather  than  round  opening  of  the 
mouth,  the  voice  resembles  the  snarling  of  the 
dog  or  the  low  growl  of  the  lion. 

A  very  fine  illustration  of  hatred,  pure  and 
simple,  may  be  found  in  the  concluding  lines  of 
Shylock's  last  speech  to  Solanio  and  Salarino,  a 
conclusion  which  is  a  most  natural  result  of  the 
indignation  and  anger  that  he  had  nursed  for 
years  against  the  man  who  had  called  him  "cut- 
throat, dog,''  and  had  spit  upon  his  "Jewish 
gabardine"-T--the  man  who  had  loaned  out  mon- 
eys gratis,  and  had  brought  down  the  rates  of 
interest  in  Venice.     He  says : 

"If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his 
humility  ?  revenge.  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew, 
what  should  his  sufferance  be  by  Christian  ex- 
ample? why,  revenge." 

213 


©If?  Art  nf  Arttng 

It  is  not  claimed  that  this  analysis  of  the  fac- 
tors of  expression  is  perfect;  but  if  it  be  clear 
enough  and  sufficiently  amplified  to  assist  the  stu- 
dent of  dramatic  art  in  his  search  for  truth,  then 
it  will  have  done  a  positive  good.  And  even  if 
there  should  be  in  the  obscurity  of  these  examples 
and  illustrations,  only  enough  light  to  make  him 
desire  more,  the  work  will  not  be  a  failure. 


214 


Hun^liUt 


TF  the  object  of  language  is  to  express  our 
"*■  thoughts  and  sensations,  then  we  may  call 
laughter  a  part  of  our  language;  and  as  it  pos- 
sesses the  advantage  of  being  intelligible  to  all 
peoples,  we  may  call  laughter  a  part  of  the  nat- 
ural language  of  expression. 

Of  all  expressions,  laughter,  generally  the  out- 
come of  pleasing  sensations,  is  the  most  impulsive 
and  the  most  exhausting.  Laughter  is  so  entire- 
ly impulsive  that  it  breaks  forth  at  times  when 
our  reason  tells  us  to  suppress  it;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  when  reason  would  call  in  its  aid, 
either  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  the  true  state 
of  our  own  feelings,  or  for  the  purpose  of  arous- 
ing cheerfulness  in  others,  it  positively  .refuses  to 

215 


ffilj^  Art  0f  Artitts 

obey  the  deliberating  power.  And  yet,  like  every 
emotion  of  the  human  mind,  laughter  is  suscep- 
tible to  analysis,  that  is,  resolution  into  its  sev- 
eral factors ;  and,  per  consequence,  to  study ;  and 
through  study  it  is  subjected  to  and  directed  by 
the  will  power. 

The  first  impression  from  this  subject  as  a 
study  is  that  the  variety  of  laughs  must  be  in- 
numerable, and  the  forms  so  fleeting  as  to  be 
inapprehensible.  But  when  we  reflect  that  every 
laugh,  whether  pleasant  or  disagreeable,  must  be 
made  up  of  the  radical  or  vanish  of  one  or  more 
of  the  tonic  elements  of  the  language,  we  shall 
have  a  basis  for  study  which  may  lead  to  the  con- 
clusion that  even  a  laugh  with  its  quick  move- 
ments and  volatile  sounds  is  not  beyond  the  reach 
of  observation  and  comparison. 

Let  us  consider  the  laugh  analytically  and  then 
synthetically.  If  we  can  discover  what  a  laugh 
is  made  up  of,  with  practice  we  ought  to  be  able  to 
put  it  together. 

Every  laugh  must  have  utterance  to  be  pre- 
sented; it  must  have  vocality  or  sound  of  some 

216 


kind  to  be  heard ;  it  must  have  force,  time,  inflec- 
tions, and  a  base  in  the  stress  of  tremor  whose 
dramatic  language  is  weakness,  the  inabihty  of 
the  muscular  power  to  resist,  without  vibration, 
the  power  of  mental  impression  that  causes  the 
laugh. 

There  are  sixteen  tonic  elementary  sounds  in 
our  language,  and  the  laugh  is  always  made  on 
one  or  more  of  these  sounds.  Some  of  the  sounds 
are  compound,  but  the  impulse  of  a  laugh  deals 
only  with  simple  sounds,  and  so,  when  it  comes  to 
a  compound,  it  takes  either  the  first  or  the  last 
part  of  it.  Here  we  have  a  chart  showing  the 
tonic  elements  of  our  language. 

1.  a  as  in  ale   (compound) 

2.  a  as  in  art 

3.  a  as  in    all 

4.  a  as  in  an 

1.  e  as  in  eve 

2.  e  as  in  end 

1.  I  as  in  ice     (compound) 

2.  i  as  in  m 
I.     0  as  in  old 

217 


t  Art  0f  Artttts 


2. 

0  as  in  /o^^ 

3. 

0  as  in  c?n 

I. 

w  as  in  tube 

2. 

u  as  in  full 

3- 

u  as  in  up 

!• 

ou  as  in  ow^  (compound) 

I. 

oi  as  in  oi7  (compound) 

Synthesis  of  the  Laugh 

If  we  enunciate  the  tonic  element  a,  as  is  com- 
monly heard  in  the  word  art,  with  an  "expulsive" 
utterance,  an  orotund  quality  of  voice  and  a  mod- 
erate force,  we  shall  have  for  our  base  a  tone  that 
generally  presents  a  hearty  laugh,  while  it  indi- 
cates cultivation  or  mental  discipline.  This  base 
may  be  represented  by  the  form  ah — prolonged 
to  the  extent  of  a  full  breath.  Now  change  the 
mode  of  utterance  to  the  "explosive,"  which  is 
the  true  utterance  of  laughter,  and  prefix  the  as- 
pirate h,  and  the  alphabetical  characters  which 
represent  the  above  sound  are  reversed  and  be- 
come ha.  Add  to  this  form  the  stress  of  tremor 
and  we  shall  obtain  a  form  of  sound  that  may  be 

218 


illustrated  thus,  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  and  may 
be  carried  on  as  long  as  the  reservoir  of  breath 
will  sustain  it.  But  the  laugh  has  other  factors 
besides  "mode  of  utterance,"  "quality  of  voice," 
and  "stress  of  tremor."  The  laugh  has  force, 
time  in  rate  of  movement  and  pause,  and  also 
inflections.  Though  the  laugh  may  assume  any 
of  the  degrees  of  force  already  described,  from 
the  "whispering  force,"  heard  in  what  is  usually 
defined  as  a  "chuckle,"  up  to  the  "impassioned 
force  of  an  outburst  of  joy,"  or  the  eccentric 
laugh  denominated  "hysterical,"  it  will  be  suffi- 
cient for  our  illustration  to  continue  the  analysis 
with  the  aid  of  moderate  force.  We  shall,  there- 
fore, for  the  purpose  of  more  clearly  presenting 
the  factors  "time"  and  "inflection,"  take  three  of 
the  simple  tonic  elements 

242 

a,    a,    e, 
on  which,  by  reason  of  the  above  synthesis,  we 
may  have  passed  through  "utterance,"  "quality 
of  voice,"  "force,"  and  "stress  of  tremor,"  which 
would  present  our  example  thus : 

219 


t  Art  0f  Arttttg 


2  4  2 

-f/a,  /la,  /la,  ha,  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha.  He,  he,  he,  he. 
We  have  now  three  simple  tonic  elements,  with 
the  same  utterance,  the  same  quality  of  voice,  the 
same  stress,  the  same  force,  the  same  time,  and 
the  same  inflections.  This  sameness  will  neces- 
sarily indicate  mental  deliberation  or  at  least 
mental  control;  but  as  the  laugh  is  the  language 
of  impulse,  we  must  destroy  the  studied  effect 
presented  by  the  sameness  of  time  upon  these 
three  successive  sounds.      We  may  do  this  by 

2 

lengthening  the  first  sound  thus :    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha, 

4 

ha,  ha,  shortening  the  second  sound  thus  ha,  ha, 
and  lengthening  the  third  sound  still  more  than 
the  first,  thus,  He,  he,  he,  he,  he,  he,  he,  he.  Our 
example  at  this  point  of  the  synthesis  might  be 
presented  thus : 

2  42 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha.  Ha,  ha,  ha.  He,  he,  he,  he, 

he,  he. 
Now,  although  we  have  broken  the  time,  there 

220 


being  no  inflections  of  the  voice,  the  laugh  is 
monotonous;  and,  therefore,  not  an  imitation  of 
the  natural  laugh,  as  it  must  be,  or  be  worse  than 
useless.  There  is  nothing  that  is  more  destruct- 
ive to  the  best  efforts  of  the  dramatic  novice  than 
the  awkwardness  of  his  wooden  laugh — Hay, 
hay,  hay,  hay;  for  it  is  a  most  thorough  exposure 
of  his  inability  properly  to  control  and  direct  the 
mechanism  of  expression  in  dramatic  art.  This 
monotony  may  be  broken  by  applying  the  rising 

2 

inflection  to  the  first  sound,  as  thus,  Ha,  ha,  ha, 
ha,  ha,  ha,  by  sustaining  the  voice  on  the  second 

4 

sound,  as  thus.  Ha,  ha,  and  then  applying  the 
falling  inflection  to  the  third  sound,  as  thus : 

2 

He,  he,  he,  he,  he,  he,  he,  he.  The  example 
would  then  stand  thus : 

2  42 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha.     Ha-ha,    He,  he,  he,  he, 
he,  he,  he,  he. 
The  force  must  be  graded  downward  to  char- 

221 


JSlt^  Art  of  Artiitg 

acterize  the  exhaustion  of  breath.  Now,  while 
the  time  in  the  movement  is  broken  up,  there 
remains  a  sameness  in  the  length  of  the  two 
pauses  that  separate  these  three  elementary- 
sounds.  The  mechanism  of  time  in  these  two 
pauses  must  be  destroyed  by  taking  one  of  the 
pauses  out,  and  letting  the  three  sounds  succeed 
each  other  as  they  would  under  the  impulsive- 
ness of  laughing  moods ;  so  that  the  perfect  syn- 
thesis of  a  laugh  on  these  three  simple  elementary 
sounds  would  be  presented  thus : 
2  42 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,    Ha,  ha.    He,  he,  he,  he, 
he,  he,  he,  he. 

Thus  it  is  shown  that  the  laugh  may  be  ob- 
served, studied  and  put  together  at  will;  but  the 
study  in  itself  becomes  very  interesting  from  the 
fact  that  each  one  of  the  elementary  sounds,  un- 
der the  impulse  of  laughter,  seems  to  mark  some 
characteristic  quality  in  the  nature  of  the  indi- 
vidual. 

If  we  take  the  position  of  the  mouth  in  the 
performance  of  the  first  sound  a,  we  shall  find  it 

222 


Hauglittr 

so  nearly  closed  that  the  laugh  resulting  may  be 
called  a  "close  mouthed  laugh."  When  involun- 
tary, it  indicates  awkwardness,  meanness,  or  lack 
of  muscular  control;  when  voluntary,  it  expresses 
mockery  or  contempt.  We  hear  it  sometimes  in 
the  novice  or  young  actor.  When  the  author  has 
inserted  several  signs  of  laughter.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
ha!  the  aspirant  for  public  honors  says  hay!  hay! 
hay!  hay!  The  second  sound  a  makes  a  good 
hearty  laugh  and  generally  indicates  a  cultivated 
mind;  while  the  third  sound  a  is  a  broad  and 
open-mouthed  sound  that  generally  indicates 
an  uncultured  condition,  or  a  disregard  of  Mrs. 
Grundy's  opinion,  called  the  "guffaw"  laugh. 
The  fourth  sound  of  a  is  very  flat,  and  the 
laugh  made  by  the  use  of  this  sound  indi- 
cates a  very  eccentric  disposition,  even  to  cranki- 
ness. Long  e  makes  the  little  laugh  that  is 
sometimes  called  the  schoolgirl's  laugh,  ''Te,  he, 
he,  he,  he,  he"  The  short  e  is  heard  in  the 
laugh  of  raillery  or  sarcastic  laugh  that  we 
hear  from  the  critics  in  a  party  when  one  of  a 
group  thinks  he  has  said  a  good  thing;  as  "Heh, 

223 


Qilft  Art  0f  Artitig 

heh,  heh;  yes,  quite  clever."  The  long  i  is  com- 
pound and  its  parts  are  heard  in  the  laughs  made 
of  a  and  e.  The  short  i  is  heard  in  old  age  in  the 
uncultivated  voice,  when  the  abdominal,  inter- 
costal and  pectoral  muscles  have  lost  their  power ; 
and  the  voice  is  the  result  of  a  very  limited  action 
of  the  muscles  of  the  throat,  and  the  resonance 
of  the  voice  is  almost  entirely  in  the  head,  thus. 
Hi,  hi,  hi,  hi,  hi,  hi.  The  sound  of  o  is  heard  in 
the  strong  laugh  of  people  who  live  outdoors,  and 
feel  pleasure  in  taking  large  draughts  of  pure  air. 
The  second  sound  of  o  represented  by  that  soft 
sound  in  the  word  "lose"  makes  a  kind  of  diplo- 
matic or  non-committal  laugh;  while  the  third 
sound  of  0,  which  is  commonly  called  short  o,  hav- 
ing its  principal  resonance  in  the  back  part  of  the 
mouth,  seems  to  express  the  feeling  of  the  man 
who  likes  good  living  with  an  occasional  drink,  as 
Oh,  oh,  oh.  The  first  sound  of  u,  as  in  tube,  seems 
to  be  the  laugh  of  the  female  diplomat,  the  lady 
who,  when  a  disagreeable  or  an  unexpected  visitor 
comes,  receives  them  with  a  "hew,  hew,  hew,  so 
pleased  to  see  you."     The  second  sound  of  u  as  in 

224 


full,  makes  that  kind  of  laugh  that  we  hear 
among  the  undecided,  characterless  sort  of  peo- 
ple, hUj  hu,  hu.  The  third  sound  of  u,  that  is, 
short  u  as  in  up,  makes  a  good  hearty  laugh,  and 
seems  nearly  related  to  the  second  sound  of  a,  as 
in  ah,  for  they  run  very  naturally  into  each  other 
in  the  hearty  candid  laugh,  as  hu,  hu,  hu,  ha,  ha, 
ha,  hu,  hu.  Ou  and  oi,  so  different  in  their  ap- 
pearance to  the  eye,  are  nevertheless  so  transpos- 
able  that  either  one  of  them  may  end  a  laugh  of 
any  kind,  though  there  are  no  laughs  beginning 
with  either  of  these  sounds. 

A  very  good  exercise  in  vocal  gymnastics  may 
be  made  by  running  all  of  these  sounds  into  one 
continuous  laugh,  thus: 

(The  figures  over  the  letters  indicate  the 
sounds  as  they  stand  in  the  chart.) 

I  2  3 

Ha  ha  ha,  ha  ha  ha  ha  ha,  ha  ha  ha  ha  ha  ha, 
41  2 

ha  ha  ha  ha  ha,  he  he  he  he  he  he  he,  he  he  he  he 

2  I  2 

he  he,  hi  hi  hi  hi  hi  hi,  ho  ho  ho  ho  ho  ho,  ho  ho 

225 


Eift  Art  0f  Arting 

3  I 

ho  ho  ho  ho  ho,  ho  ho  ho  ho  ho,  hu  hu  hu  hu  hu 

2  3  I 

hu,  hu  hu  hu  hu  hu,  hu  hu  hu  hu  hu,  hou,  hou  hou 

I 
hou  hou,  hoi. 

The  benevolent  emotions,  joy,  gladness,  merri- 
ment and  mirth,  give  off  laughter  by  an  explosive 
utterance,  while  the  malevolent  emotions,  scorn, 
irony,  sarcasm  and  contempt,  are  expressed  by 
an  expulsive  utterance,  representing  a  sustained 
mental  condition. 


226 


(Q^rging  attln  W^tpxn^ 


A  LTHOUGH  these  terms  are  frequently  used 
'^  ^  synonymously,  yet  there  is  undoubtedly  a 
very  great  difference  in  the  values  of  these  words 
when  we  attempt  to  define  human  actions  or  to 
describe  the  drama  of  emotions. 

Crying  seems  to  be  the  outcome  of  the  animal 
nature  in  man  expressing,  without  the  limiting 
force  of  cultivated  intelligence,  his  anger,  his 
grief  or  his  fear.  Crying  is  a  noisy,  boisterous 
expression  of  emotion,  and  is  always  disagree- 
able, if  not  painful,  to  the  hearer.  Children 
often  cry  out  in  anger,  and  men  and  women  will 
sometimes  vent  their  rage  of  anger  in  crying. 
In  the  first  outburst  of  great  grief,  both  men  and 
women  cry  aloud;  and,  on  every  hand,  friends 

227 


Sifi?  Art  nf  Artttig 

seek  to  suppress  the  crying,  not  only  because  it  is 
painful  to  the  auditor,  but  because  it  shows  a  lack 
of  self-control  on  the  part  of  him  who  cries. 

In  many  cases  crying  produces  quite  the  oppo- 
site effect  from  that  sought  by  the  crier.  When 
a  person,  child  or  man,  cries,  the  act  is  performed 
to  arouse  sympathy  and  beget  pity,  but  it  not  un- 
frequently  begets  laughter  and  contempt. 

Crying  is  an  expression  of  weakness.  If  a 
man  cry  for  help,  it  is  the  sign  of  weakness.  If 
he  cry  in  anger,  it  is  because  he  is  not  mentally 
strong  enough  to  suppress  the  emotion.  If  he 
cry  aloud  in  grief,  again  it  shows  his  inability  to 
suppress  the  impulse  of  the  emotion,  and  so  cry- 
ing aloud  in  any  case  expresses  the  selfish  animal 
nature  of  the  man,  and  may  create  a  feeling  of 
opposition  instead  of  sympathy.  And  yet  the  cry, 
as  an  outburst  of  pain,  or  as  an  escapement  of 
fear,  is  a  powerful  factor  in  expressing  the  physi- 
cal or  mental  condition  of  the  subject;  but  if  pro- 
tracted crying  seems  to  engage  attention  and  win 
sympathy,  it  will  be  found  generally  that  the  sym- 
pathy is  awakened  more  by  the  attending  circum- 

228 


Olrgtttg  attin  Wttpinq 

stances  than  by  the  voice,  which  in  crying  is  al- 
ways disagreeable.  It  suggests  a  lack  of  strength 
to  suppress  the  emotion  or  control  the  situation. 

Weeping  is  a  much  more  powerful  factor  in  act- 
ing than  the  noisy  outburst  of  the  cry.  The  sup- 
pression in  weeping  indicates  a  mental  force 
which  is  trying  to  respect  the  feelings  of  others 
by  concealing  the  woes  or  wants  of  him  who 
weeps;  and  the  silent  overflow  of  tears  or  the 
escape  of  a  sob,  or  a  loW  wail,  or  moan,  will  not 
only  awaken  sympathy,  but  will  hold  it  longer,  and 
with  more  intensity,  than  the  boisterous  outbursts 
of  a  cry.  We  admire  strength  whether  physical 
or  mental,  and  we  sympathize  with  its  breaking ; 
and  as  the  sigh,  the  sob,  the  moan,  and  the  silent 
tear,  are  the  signs  of  strength  giving  way  to  sen- 
sations which  it  cannot  control,  we  recognize  the 
signs  of  the  failing  power  and  sympathize  with 
the  sufferer. 

It  is  sometimes  the  case  that  expressions  of 
grief  in  dramatic  composition  grow  from  silent 
tears  to  spasmodic  outbursts  of  violent  crying, 
and  when  this  is  the  case,  the  artist  will,  in  sup- 

229 


t  Art  0f  Arttttg 

pressing  the  outburst,  take  into  consideration  the 
great  force  under  which  muscular  restraint  has 
given  way  and  graduate  the  return  to  physical 
quiet  or  repose  with  respect  to  time  and  force,  so 
as  to  make  his  effort  bear  the  strongest  resem- 
blance to  nature. 

In  the  character  of  Romeo,  in  *'Romeo  and 
Juliet,"  there  are  some  very  fine  passages,  which 
will  serve  to  show  the  difference  between  the 
effect  of  the  boisterous  cry  or  outburst  of  a  pas- 
sion, and  its  suppression  to  silent,  tearful  weep- 
ing. 

Consider  the  outburst  of  Romeo,  on  learning 

from  the  Friar  the  Prince's  doom  or  sentence 

upon  him  for  having  killed  Tybalt,     He  cries  out 

through  fear  of  crushed  love  and  hope : 

"Ha,  banishment!    be  merciful,  say  death;" 

and  when  the  Friar,  his  old  friend  and  tutor,  begs 

him  to  let  him  speak  but  a  word  in  explanation 

of  the  situation  to  show  that  the  Prince  is  really 

kind  to  him,  Romeo  bursts  out  again  with : 

"Thou  canst  not  speak  of  what  thou  dost  not 
feel: 

230 


(Jlrgtttg  nnh  WttpittQ 

Wert  thou  as  young  as  I,  Juliet  thy  love. 
An  hour  but  married,  Tybalt  murdered, 
Doting  like  me,  and  like  me  banished, 
Then  mightest  thou  speak,  then  mightest  thou 

tear  thy  hair, 
And  fall  upon  the  ground,  as  I  do  now. 
Taking  the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave." 

This  violent  outburst,  instead  of  awakening 
sympathy,  arouses  opposition  and  a  disposition  to 
chide  his  folly. 

The  Friar  exclaims: 

"God's  will! 
What  simpleness  is  this!" 

And  when,  after  learning  from  the  Nurse  the 
state  of  lamentation  into  which  Juliet  has  fallen 
by  reason  of  his  killing  Tybalt,  her  cousin,  he 
draws  his  sword  as  if  to  take  his  own  life,  crying 
out: 

"O,  tell  me.  Friar,  tell  me, 
In  what  vile  part  of  this  anatomy 
Doth  my  name  lodge?  tell  me,  that  I  may  sack 
The  hateful  mansion." 

The  Friar  says: 

"Hold  thy  desperate  hand: 
Art  thou  a  man  ?    Thy  form  cries  out  thou  art ; 

231 


Sljf^  Art  0f  Arttng 

Thy  tears  are  womanish ;  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast : 
Unseemly  woman  in  a  seeming  man !" 

Here  we  find  the  severest  censure  for  the  ab- 
sence of  mental  control.  The  Friar  likens  him 
to  a  beast  and  for  his  weakness  calls  him  even 
an  unseeming  woman.  And  this  is  Shakespeare 
himself  who  thus  discourses  upon  the  unworthi- 
ness  of  crying  aloud,  and  thus  shows  its  impo- 
tence in  awakening  true  sympathy  or  pity. 

How  much  more  powerful  is  the  silent  manner 
with  which  in  the  Fifth  Act  he  receives  from  Bal- 
thasar  the  news  of  the  death  of  Juliet.  Although 
in  the  scene  from  which  the  above  lines  and  situa- 
tion are  quoted  Romeo  declares  that  banishment 
is  worse  than  death,  yet,  when  he  is  fully  im- 
pressed with  the  death  of  Juliet,  how  silently  his 
grief  presents  itself  to  the  messenger.  We  see 
him  passing  from  joy  to  extreme  grief  with  the 
most  simple  and  quiet  question.  When  first  we 
see  him  at  Mantua,  whither  he  is  banished,  he 
says : 

"If  I  may  trust  the  flattery  of  sleep, 
My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news  at  hand :" 

232 


Urging  anb  Wttpin^ 

And  when  Balthasar  enters,  Romeo  exclaims : 

"News  from  Verona!    How  now,  Balthasar! 
Dost  thou  not  bring  me  letters  from  the  Friar? 
How  doth  my  lady  ?    Is  my  father  well  ? 
How  fares  my  Juliet  ?  that  I  ask  again ; 
For  nothing  can  be  ill  if  she  be  well." 

Balthasar  replies: 

"Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill : 
Her  body  sleeps  in  Capels'  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives." 

Then  comes  that  simple,  quiet  question : 
"Is  it  even  so?" 

and  that  intensely  dramatic  exclamation,  speak- 
ing the  positive  and  final  determination  of  desper- 
ate despair : 

"Then  I  defy  you,  stars!" 

What  a  suppression  of  sensation  in  those  two 
sentences !  The  concentrated  anguish  of  his  dy- 
ing self-love,  which  could  no  longer  struggle 
against  an  adverse  fate.  There  is  no  outburst  of 
grief,  no  cry  of  despair,  yet  there  is  more  power 
in  this  one  line,  to  awaken  sympathy  and  beget 
pity  for  his  suffering,  than  in  the  half  hundred 

233 


Eift  Art  0f  Artttts 

lines  of  lamentation  uttered  in  the  Friar's  cell 
about  his  banishment  and  consequent  loss  of 
Juliet.  In  neither  situation  is  Juliet  dead;  and 
yet  in  this  latter  instance  we  fully  and  keenly 
sympathize  with  his  great  and  overwhelming  sor- 
row, because  of  the  intellectual  strength  shown 
in  the  suppression  of  the  sensation.  This  sensa- 
tion in  its  silent  course,  fills  the  messenger  with 
fear  as  he  beholds  the  pallor  and  the  wildness  of 
his  looks — the  physical  conditions — the  facial  ex- 
pression of  a  profound  grief  that  he  could  not 
conceal.  The  subtle  and  delicate  working  of  an 
emotion  that  will  not  vent  its  force  in  speech,  but 
overflows  the  heart  and  bids  it  break.  There  is 
always  something  powerfully  impressive  in  silent 
grief.  And  for  its  interior  working,  the  poet 
has  very  truthfully  described  it  in  the  line, 

"The  heart  feels  most  when  the  lips  move  not." 

The  suppression  of  the  cry  or  outburst  of  grief, 
when  not  positively  called  for  by  the  concurrent 
text,  has  this  advantage  as  a  factor  of  expression 
in  dramatic  art — that  its  silence  leaves  something 

234 


to  the  imagination  of  the  auditor,  who  will  gener- 
ally allow  his  imaginings  to  keep  within  the 
bounds  of  the  author's  situation. 

The  cry  or  outburst  of  grief  or  sorrow  is  not 
only  generally  overdone,  but  the  conclusion  of 
the  cry  or  outburst  is  generally  false  in  its  action 
for  the  re-establishment  of  the  normal  condi- 
tion of  the  physique. 

When  the  excessive  sensation  produced  by 
some  remarkable  impression  so  agitates  the  mus- 
cular system  that  normal  action  is  destroyed,  and 
spasmodic,  abrupt  and  irregular  movement  takes 
the  place  of  the  regular  steady  and  controlled 
movement  of  the  voice  and  gesticulation  of  the 
body,  then  the  power  that  causes  this  abnormal 
action  is  ''impassioned  force,"  and  ''time*'  becomes 
a  very  important  factor  for  the  artist  to  consider 
in  giving  the  true  imitation  of  the  rise  and  sub- 
sidence of  such  a  sensation. 

Crying  and  weeping  are  both  the  outcome  of 
extreme  sensations,  and,  not  unf requently,  on  the 
stage,  the  abruptness  of  their  beginning  and  ter- 
mination convert  them  into  ridicule. 

235 


Uiift  Art  0f  Arttng 

In  Scene  II,  Act  III,  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet," 
where  the  Nurse  brings  to  Juliet  the  news  of 
Tybalt's  death  and  so  mixes  and  mangles  the 
story  as  first  to  convey  the  impression  that  Romeo 
is  dead,  we  have  a  fine  illustration  of  the  paralyz- 
ing effect  of  the  first  impression  of  a  great  grief. 
When  the  Nurse  in  reply  to  Juliet's  question, 

"What  news  ?  why  dost  thou  wring  thy  hands  ?" 

says: 

"Alack  the  day! — he's  gone,  he's  killed,  he's 
dead!" 

Juliet's  reply  is,  as  though  she  believes  the 
Nurse's  reply  refers  to  her  lover: 

"Can  heaven  be  so  envious?" 

Could  anything  be  more  seemingly  quiet?  Does 
it  not  seem  almost  like  indifference  to  the  situa- 
tion? But  if  we  follow  the  lines,  we  shall  be  able 
to  appreciate  the  terrible  intensity  of  this  quiet 
reply.     For  when  in  the  Nurse's  next  speech, 

"Romeo  can. 
Though  heaven  cannot." 

236 


Juliet  discovers  that  Romeo  is  not  dead,  her  ter- 
ror and  her  indignation  both  find  vent  in  that 
most  impassioned  outburst: 

"What  devil  art  thou  that  dost  torment  me  thus  ? 
This  torture  should  be  roar'd  in  dismal  hell." 

There  certainly  must  have  been  a  tremendous 
sensation  to  produce  such  an  outburst;  and  as 
the  Nurse  manages  by  her  much  entangled  story 
to  hold  Juliet  for  some  time  in  doubt  as  to 
Romeo's  death,  and  finally  informs  her  that 
Romeo  has  killed  her  cousin  Tybalt  and  is  ban- 
ished therefor,  her  grief  is  constantly  accumula- 
tive throughout  the  scene.  When  Juliet  finally 
understands  and  fully  appreciates  the  word  "ban- 
ished," that  "banished,"  that  one  word  "ban- 
ished," seems  to  choke  her  utterance,  and  make 
the  very  climax  of  her  grief ;  for  she  says : 

"  .     .     .    To  speak  that  word 
Is  father,  mother,  Tybalt,  Romeo,  Juliet, 
All  slain,  all  dead :  Romeo  is  banished, — 
There  is  no  end,  no  limit,  measure,  bound, 
In  that  word's  death;  no  words  can  that  woe 
sound." 

Now  if  any  cause  can  relax  and  shatter  the 
237 


®If^  Art  0f  Artittg 

muscular  system  so  as  to  produce  a  broken  cur- 
rent of  voice,  certainly  here  seems  to  be  a  cause, 
and,  undoubtedly,  the  rest  of  this  scene  should  be 
played  with  sobs  and  gasps,  and  such  spasmodic 
moans  as  would  realize  to  the  auditor  the  fact 
that  words  alone  could  not  express  her  woe. 
Yet  I  have  heard  an  actress,  who  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  an  artiste,  speak  the  next  line : 

"Where  is  my  father  and  my  mother,  nurse  ?" 

with  a  voice  as  sweet  and  concurrent  in  its  action 
as  if  she  had  just  returned  from  a  pleasure  party, 
and  would  simply  like  to  know  if  her  parents  had 
returned  before  her. 

Let  the  artiste  study  her  own  griefs,  and  she 
will  find  that  the  sob  and  the  sigh  will  sometimes 
last  for  hours  after  the  cause  of  the  outburst  has 
passed  away,  and  that  the  outburst  of  strong 
or  great  grief  subsides  through  a  succession  of 
sobs  and  moans. 

The  sob  is  made  by  one,  two  or  three  quick 
movements  of  inhalation  followed  by  a  long  ex- 
pulsion of  the  breath  bearing  out  a  slow  and  high 

238 


''head  tone''  with  suppressed  force  and  a  median 
stress,  terminating  with  a  vanishing  stress,  and 
the  explosion. 

The  cry  at  first  alarms  us,  then  appeals  to  our 
patience  and  endurance.  Silent  grief  makes  us 
fear  for  the  subject.  The  low  wailing  note  of 
woe  arouses  our  sympathy  and  pity,  and  we 
always  seek  to  succor  the  distressed. 


239 


P^rB0ttal  Mui^tittiBm 


TN  describing  the  individualism  and  the  person- 
-*^  ality  of  clever  men  and  women,  there  seems 
to  be  a  general  disposition  or  tendency  on  the  part 
of  writers  and  speakers  to  endow  them  with  some 
mysterious  and  undefinable  quality  or  attribute, 
as  if  to  place  them  in  an  unknown  region  between 
the  natural  and  the  supernatural,  where  they 
reach  toward  but  fall  just  a  little  short  of  infinite 
power. 

Sometimes  a  man  or  a  woman  of  great  ability  in 
any  direction  of  work  is  called  a  "genius/'  This 
word  seems  to  be  a  generic  term  covering  a  mul- 
titude of  human  attributes,  all  of  which  are  mys- 
terious, for  the  reason  that  no  two  persons  define 
genius  with  the  same  meaning.  A  genius  is 
generally  credited  with  inspiration,  another  word 

240 


the  meaning  of  which  is  lost  in  unlimited  space, 
because  it  implies  an  immediate  and  direct  con- 
nection with  Divine  Power.  But  the  most  mys- 
terious of  all  the  qualities  with  which  the  mys- 
tery-loving hero-worshippers  invest  their  idols  is 
that — to  them — indefinable  something  called 
"personal  magnetism." 

Magnetism  in  its  original  meaning  is  a  result 
that  grows  out  of  the  influence  of  a  magnet,  de- 
scribed as  a  metallic  substance  consisting  of  two 
oxides  of  iron,  a  small  portion  of  quartz  and 
alumina.  The  influence  of  the  magnet  is  ap- 
parent in  its  action  on  metallic  substances  only; 
and  the  effect  of  this  influence  of  the  magnet  is 
locomotion,  actual  change  of  place,  by  the  metal- 
lic substances  influenced. 

It  is  not  asserted  that  the  force  called  "personal 
magnetism"  ever  affects  its  subject  in  that  way. 
It  is  never  stated  as  a  fact  that  the  "personal 
magnetism"  of  any  orator,  actor  or  singer  drew 
an  audience  from  any  distance  to  the  forum,  the 
theatre  or  the  opera ;  but  it  is  often  said  that  the 
orator  held  his  hearers  spell-bound,  that  the  audi- 

241 


JSift  Art  0f  Arttttg 

ence  was  enchained  by  the  actor  and  charmed  by 
the  singer.  These  forms  of  description  may  be 
exaggerated,  but  they  mean  something;  and,  in 
each  and  every  case,  these  forms  mean  that  the 
orator,  the  actor  and  the  singer  had  engaged  the 
earnest  undivided  attention  of  his  auditors,  and, 
by  impressment  through  his  psychic  force,  had 
begotten  in  the  minds  of  his  hearers  a  sense  of 
pleasure  that  they  were  unwilHng  to  reHnquish 
for  the  attraction  of  any  other  environment. 
Here  it  is  asserted  that  there  is  an  impression 
made  on  the  minds  of  the  hearers.  It  is  not 
claimed  that  they  are  moved  physically  from  place 
to  place  like  the  subjects  of  the  loadstone;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  instead  of  becoming  active,  they  are 
made  passive  yet  receptive,  and  their  mental  pow- 
ers limited  and  bounded  by  the  artist. 

This  state  does  not  answer  to  the  state  of  magf- 
netism,  which  supposes  an  exterior  force  only, 
drawing  material  substance  towards  itself  and 
holding  it  there  quiescent.  The  force  exerted 
by  the  artist,  though  it  does  not  move  the  physical 
conditions,  yet  holds  fast  its  subject  and  begets 

242 


a  sensation  within  the  subject  that  moves  out  with 
the  expression  of  a  desire  for  more  of  the  influ- 
encing force. 

The  only  Hkeness,  then,  between  magnetism 
and  the  force  exerted  by  the  artist  is  the  power 
to  hold,  at  a  given  point;  and  the  greater  effect 
of  the  orator,  the  actor  and  the  singer  is  the  ex- 
pression of  pleasure,  on  the  part  of  the  subject — 
the  desire  for  more,  begotten  by  the  exerted  pow- 
er of  the  artist.  It  seems,  therefore,  that  mag- 
netism in  this  case  is  a  misnomer,  and  the  word 
^'hypnotic"  would  better  describe  the  power  of 
the  artist.  But,  again,  the  hypnotic  influence 
carried  to  its  ultimate  puts  the  subject  in  a 
somnolent  condition,  or  makes  the  subject  entirely 
responsive  to  the  power  of  the  hypnotizer,  appar- 
ently destroying  the  will  power  of  the  subject  and 
substituting  the  alter  for  the  ego. 

Not  so  with  the  influence  of  the  artist.  There 
the  ego  remains  and  admires  the  alter,  because 
the  alter  gives  pleasure  to  the  ego. 

This  "personal  magnetism,"  then,  so  called,  is 
not  magnetism;  because,  unlike  the  magnet,  it 

243 


ailj^  Art  nf  Arttns 

does  not  disturb  nor  move  the  physical  condi- 
tions. 

It  is  not  hypnotism,  because  it  does  not,  like 
hypnotism,  put  the  ego  to  sleep  and  allow  the 
alter  to  take  possession  of  its  physical  machinery. 

What,  then,  is  this  force  commonly  called  per- 
sonal magnetism? 

In  those  men  and  women,  in  whatever  depart- 
ment of  art,  who  exert  this  influence,  may  be 
found  these  characteristics:  A  nervous,  active 
nature,  whose  activities  are  concealed  by  a  strong 
will  power;  the  ability  to  concentrate,  and  hold 
the  mind  down  to  the  single  point  under  consid- 
eration; perfect  simplicity  in  mental  action;  the 
perfect  adaptability  of  the  entire  impressional  and 
physical  force  to  the  doing  of  the  thing  in  hand; 
and  a  vehement  suppression  of  the  ego  for  the 
perfect  presentation  of  the  subject.  We  may 
therefore  conclude  that  the  so-called  "personal 
magnetism"  is  mental  simplicity  with  unlimited 
energy  of  nerve  and  muscle,  focalizing  the 
psychic  force  of  the  orator,  actor  or  singer  on  the 
subject  under  immediate  consideration. 

244 


This  power  may  be  acquired  through  study, 
by  giving  art  the  preference  over  a  display  of 
personahty,  an  outcome  of  the  ignorance  of  art, 
or  an  indiscreet  egotism.  In  the  business  affairs 
of  life,  the  ego  may  successfully  dominate  the  sit- 
uation; but  in  fine  art  personality  must  be  sub- 
ordinated, if  there  is  to  be  a  perfect  re-presenta- 
tion of  anything  outside  of  the  ego. 

The  sublimity  of  egotism  occurs  when  a  man 
surveys  his  own  personality  and  thinks  he  has 
measured  the  universe. 


245 


Brama 


'T^HE  word  "drama"  is  a  pure  Greek  word, 

•^      and  signifies  action — action  unlimited  by 
time  or  place. 

Drama  is  action,  whether  it  be  in  a  church  or 
a.  theatre. 

The  motives  of  all  drama  seem  to  have  been, 
and  are  derived  from,  three  sources,  gods  and 
demi-gods,  heroes,  and  domestic  life. 

The  first  of  these  spring  from  the  imagination 
dwelling  on  super-human  acts  resulting  from  the 
power  of  the  gods  directly,  or  the  power  of  the 
gods  expressed  through  human  beings.  This 
deified  drama  arose  and  obtained  with  the  Greeks. 
The  heroic  in  dramatic  presentation  results  from 
the  unlimited  force  in  man,  untrammeled  by  the 
governing  force  of  reason, — a  full  out-pouring  of 

246 


Srama 

the  force  of  the  ego  unlimited  or  uninfluenced  by 
the  rights  of  the  other.  This  force  prevails 
throughout  the  plays  of  Shakespeare.  The  do- 
mestic emotions  in  modern  plays  show  always  a 
mixed  condition  of  feeling  and  reason,  governed 
by  social  law. 

In  the  ancient  Greek  drama,  the  governing 
force  was  respect  for  religious  rites,  and  an  un- 
adulterated faith  in  the  power  of  the  gods. 

The  heroic  drama  illustrates  the  belief  and  con- 
fidence of  man  in  himself. 

The  modern  drama  is  full  of  questioning  and 
agnosticism,  a  lack  of  confidence  in  humanity,  a 
continual  expression  of  disbelief  in  social  insti- 
tutes. 

The  theatre  is  a  place  of  exhibition  or  show. 

It  is  stated  in  history  that  the  first  theatres 
were  built  in  Athens  under  the  rule  of  Themis- 
tocles,  who  was  elected  Archon  about  the  year 
480  B.  C. 

Theatres  were  not,  at  first,  built  entirely  for 
the  exhibition  of  dramatic  compositions,  but 
were  used  by  the  Sophists  of  that  time  for  the 

247 


^Ift  Art  0f  Artittg 

display  of  declamatory  arguments — the  show  of 
philosophy  by  oratory  and  the  worship  of  myth- 
ology. 

All  literary  composition,  whether  in  prose  or  in 
poetry,  may  be  divided  into  at  least  four  kinds, 
viz.,  descriptive,  didactic^  lyric  and  dramatic. 
The  Iliad  and  the  Aeneid  are  dramatic  literature. 

The  full  intention  of  descriptive  and  didactic 
composition  may  be  presented  to  the  auditor 
through  the  medium  of  the  speaking  voice  alone. 
No  action  of  any  kind,  except  the  action  of  the 
vocal  apparatus  and  the  articulating  organs,  is 
called  for.  Through  the  means  of  nice  articula- 
tion, proper  quality  of  voice  and  true  emphasis, 
the  full  value  of  descriptive  and  didactic  compo- 
sition may  be  presented. 

Though  lyric  composition  may  be  read  with  the 
speaking  voice,  yet,  to  present  its  full  strength, 
the  lyric  must  be  sung.  This  was  its  first  inten- 
tion, it  having  been  originally  composed  as  a 
voice  accompaniment  to  the  lyre,  one  of  the  earli- 
est stringed  instruments.  The  lyric  was  written 
for  music,  and  although  the  speaking  voice,  by 

248 


Srama 

the  process  of  reading,  may  tell  its  story  and 
present  its  logic,  the  singing  voice  alone  can  im- 
press its  sensations  upon  the  listener. 

The  full  meaning  of  dramatic  composition, 
whether  poetry  or  prose,  can  only  be  presented 
when,  to  all  the  factors  that  constitute  vocal  ex- 
pression, is  added  action.  It  is  because  of  the 
inhering  attribute  of  action  that  literary  composi- 
tion IS  called  "dramatic."  Dramatic  composition 
must  be  acted.  It  is  the  acting  of  dramatic  com- 
positions that  largely  enhances  their  value,  and 
makes  a  permanent  place  for  them  in  the  litera- 
ture of  the  world. 

As  the  lyrical  in  John  Howard  Payne's  song, 
"Sweet  Home,"  has  impressed  it  to  a  place  of 
rest  in  the  hearts  of  millions  who  never  would 
have  felt  the  words  without  the  music,  so  the  act- 
ing of  Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear,  Macbeth  and  the 
popular  heroes  and  heroines  of  Shakespeare, 
make  them  living,  breathing  beings,  who,  while 
they  are  before  us,  command  our  attention  as 
much  as  any  of  the  realities  of  life. 

Nearly  fifty  per  cent  of  Shakespeare's  dramas 

249 


®I|?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

still  hold  their  place  on  the  stage;  and  the  quo- 
tations from  these  dramas  in  current  literature, 
owe  their  value  largely  to  the  fact  that  Shake- 
speare's creatures  are  actively  before  the  world, 
and  by  action  are  still  impressing  their  mental 
force  on  the  pulpit,  the  bar  and  the  best  literature 
of  our  time. 

Of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries  not  one  re- 
mains in  the  field  of  action.  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Ben  Johnson  and  Webster  have  passed 
from  the  stage,  and  have  been  relegated  to  the 
top  shelves  of  the  library.  They  are  no  longer 
acted,  and  seldom  quoted.  Inactivity  is  death 
to  dramatic  literature,  and  the  library  shelf  its 
mausoleum.  The  sustaining  attributes  of  dra- 
matic composition,  whether  prose  or  poetry,  is 
action.  Where  the  composition  is  divided  into 
acts,  and  the  incidents  of  the  composition  repre- 
sented by  one  or  more  persons,  it  is  called  a 
drama — a  described  or  defined  action. 

Drama  is  the  generic  term.  Dramas  are  di- 
vided into  several  classes  or  kinds,  viz.:  Tra- 
gedy, Comedy,  Melodrama,  Opera,  Farce,  Vau- 

250 


irama 

deville,  Burlesque,  Operetta,  Comedietta.  Any 
one  of  these  several  species  of  drama  may  be 
called  a  play,  because  the  impersonators  of  the 
characters  are  players.  They  play  that  they  are 
the  people  they  represent.  There  is  no  arbitrary 
limit  to  the  number  of  acts  into  which  a  drama 
may  be  divided.  There  may  be  one,  two,  three, 
four,  five  or  more.  The  divisions  called  acts  are 
made  to  suit  the  taste  and  convenience  of  the 
author  in  telling  his  story. 

The  specific  names,  "Tragedy"  and  "Comedy/* 
are  derived,  upon  authority  of  the  historian  of 
the  most  ancient  theatre  of  the  Greeks,  from  the 
opening  and  closing  ceremonies  of  the  feast  of 
Bacchus,  even  prior  to  the  time  of  Thespis,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  the  inventor  of  Greek  dramatic 
performances. 

The  opening  of  the  festivities,  held  annually  in 
honor  of  Bacchus,  was  made  with  song  and 
dance,  and  such  exhilarating  exercises  by  the  vil- 
lagers (the  Comes)  as  might  illustrate  the  mental 
elation  of  the  god  of  wine ;  and  the  closing  exer- 
cise was  the  sacrificing  of  a  goat  {tragos),  deco- 

251 


Slf?  Art  0f  Arttng 

rated  with  flowers  and  constituting  a  part  of  the 
spectacular  in  the  festivities  of  the  day. 

From  the  death  of  the  goat  (tragos)  is  derived 
our  word  "tragedy,"  which  to  us  signifies  a  drama 
of  important  incidents,  illustrating  strong  male- 
volent emotions  and  terminating  in  death. 

Thespis,  who  lived  more  than  five  hundred 
years  before  Christ,  is  called  the  father  of  the 
Tragedy,  or  tragic  dramas. 

From  the  action  of  the  villagers  (the  Comes) 
in  the  opening  of  their  festival,  when  all  is  glad- 
ness— when  the  benevolent  emotions  prevail — is 
derived  our  word  "comedy/'  Epicharmus,  a  Greek 
poet  and  philosopher,  who  flourished  contempo- 
raneously with  Thespis,  is  called  the  inventor  of 
comedy  or  comic  drama.  Nothing  scarcely  now 
remains  of  the  dramas  of  either  of  these  authors 
but  a  number  of  titles,  and  even  these  are  in  dis- 
pute among  the  commentators. 

A  tragedy  is  a  dramatic  composition  in  which 
the  story  or  plot  is  told  by  the  characters,  who 
constitute  the  dramatis  personae.  The  story  and 
all  the  incidents  must  bear  so  strong  a  resem- 

252 


irama 

blance  to  truth  as  to  carry  conviction  to  the  audi- 
tor and  spectator,  that  the  emotions  expressed  by 
the  impersonator  have  their  sensations  in  real- 
ities. 

There  may  be,  and  in  many  tragedies  there  are, 
comedy  incidents  and  situations  for  contrast, 
lest  the  auditor  may  tire  from  a  too  constant 
mental  strain  in  one  direction ;  but  the  prevailing 
emotions  in  tragedy  are  malevolent  in  their  na- 
ture, leading  through  action  to  the  death  of  the 
hero  or  heroine — the  central  person  or  persons 
from  which  the  action  radiates.  The  time,  the 
manners  and  the  customs  of  the  people  are  sub- 
ordinate considerations.  The  death  scene  of 
Queen  Katherine  in  Shakespeare's  "Henry  VIII" 
is  grandly  different  and  more  picturesque  than 
the  death  scene  of  Camille  in  Dumas's  modern 
drama,  but  the  final  effect  on  the  mind  of  the 
auditor  is  not  more  melancholy  nor  more  lasting. 
The  action,  terminating  in  death,  is  the  point  of 
application,  and  this  is  tragedy. 

In  tragedy  all  merely  descriptive  passages,  no 
matter  how  beautiful  the  phrasing,  check  and  dis- 

253 


aitj?  Art  0f  Artttte 

.  tribute  the  accumulating  mental  force  of  the 
auditor,  and  thus  prevent  the  climaxing  and  out- 
ward expression  of  the  sensation  the  author  is 
seeking  to  arouse.  For  this  reason  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  phrases  in  Shakespeare  are  elim- 
inated from  the  acting  edition. 

In  drama,  words  must  express  past,  present  or 
future  action,  and  connect  it  with  the  central  fig- 
ure of  the  story,  or  they  destroy  interest  just  in 
proportion  to  their  divergence  from  the  unity 
of  action. 

A  Comedy  is  a  dramatic  composition  divided 
into  two,  three,  four,  five  or  more  acts,  as  the 
case  may  be,  presenting  in  its  story  and  incidents 
a  likeness  to  the  probabilities  of  life,  where  the 
benevolent  emotions  prevail  with  a  happy  termi- 
nation. 

The  Farce  is  a  play  in  one,  two  or  three  acts — 
seldom  tolerated  in  a  greater  number  of  acts — in 
which  are  presented  such  plot  and  incidents,  with 
characteristic  dialogue,  as  may  make  the  impres- 
sion of  possibilities  upon  the  mind  of  the  auditor, 
while  the  action  is  progressing,  but  which,  when 

254 


irama 

reviewed  through  comparison  with  a  standard  of 
reality,  produce  such  contrasts  as  to  beget  laugh- 
ter. The  strength  of  the  farce-play  is  most  fully 
developed  when  it  is  presented  directly  after  the 
serious  realities  of  tragedy.  The  contrasts  are 
made  stronger. 

The  Burlesque  is  a  play  that  seldom  exceeds 
two  acts  in  length,  and  is  based  upon  the  force 
of  contrast  to  produce  laughter.  The  contrast, 
however,  does  not  lie  between  the  situation  pre- 
sented and  the  truth  or  reality  in  nature,  but  be- 
tween the  situation  and  the  manner  of  acting  it. 
When  the  situation  is  serious  it  may  be  bur- 
lesqued, that  is,  converted  to  laughter,  by  light, 
trifling,  artificial  acting;  and  when  the  situation 
is  comic,  the  ridiculous  in  it  is  heightened  by  a 
serious  and  earnest  manner  in  acting  it.  From 
the  burlesque  the  grotesque  is  developed. 

Farce  and  burlesque  situations  depend  entirely 
upon  the  wit  and  cleverness  of  an  author  in  con- 
structing his  play,  and  there  is  always  an  under- 
lying principle  that  conforms  to  the  truths  of 
nature  in  general;  but  grotesqueries  depend  for 

255 


®Ijr  Art  0f  Arttttg 

their  success  entirely  upon  the  personality  and 
individuality  of  the  actor. 

The  Romance  or  Romantic  drama,  which  is 
generally  called  "melodrama,"  is  a  species  of  play 
that  bears  about  the  same  relation  to  tragedy  and 
comedy  that  farce  bears  to  comedy.  The  roman- 
tic drama  is  always  based  on  conditions  that  re- 
quire great  mental  elation  on  the  part  of  the 
auditor  for  their  acceptance. 

The  heroes  and  heroines,  together  with  the  in- 
cidents of  the  romantic  drama,  are  the  inventions 
and  contrivances  of  the  author,  for  the  purpose 
of  lifting  the  mind  out  of  the  equilibrium  in  which 
a  continuous  observation  of  the  realities  of  life  is 
likely  to  hold  it.  The  cleverest  author  of  the  ro- 
mantic drama,  recognizing  the  tendency  of  the 
mind  to  fall  back  to  comparing  art  and  nature, 
injects  music  throughout  his  play,  thereby  appeal- 
ing to  feeling,  through  which  he  keeps  alive  the 
desire  for  the  imaginary — the  unreal — the  ideal- 
istic. 

The  romantic  drama  may  be  either  tragedy  or 
comedy.     Its  success  will  depend  upon  its  power 

256 


Srama 

to  lift  the  mind  out  of  the  rut  of  every-day  life 
and  entertain  it  with  the  picturesque  in  the 
realms  of  imagination. 

In  the  world  of  amusement  everything  is  legit- 
imate that  entertains  and  does  not  demoralize. 
Opera  is  acting  set  to  music ;  and  as  the  merit  of 
the  play  depends  more  upon  the  music  and  acting 
than  upon  the  words  or  literature  of  the  work, — 
opera  is,  therefore,  the  highest  form  of  melo- 
drama. 

Operas  are  divided  like  other  plays  into  acts, 
the  number  varying  in  accordance  with  the  im- 
portance of  the  story  and  incidents  all  the  way 
from  one  to  five  acts,  and  seldom  exceeding  this 
last  number.  Opera  is  also  divided  into  classes, 
as  grand  and  comic  opera.  Grand  opera,  whether 
tragedy  or  comedy,  always  presents  a  story  of  dig- 
nity and  importance,  with  as  near  a  resemblance 
to  the  realities  of  life  as  the  necessities  of  the 
music  will  allow;  but,  undoubtedly,  through  the 
prevailing  force  of  the  music  of  the  opera, 
whether  the  story  be  of  tragedy  or  comedy,  the 
tendency  is  toward  hyperbole  through  the  liter- 

257 


Sltf^  Art  0f  Arttng 

ature  of  the  play.  Consequently,  at  its  highest  in 
art,  opera  leads  towards  romance  instead  of 
reality. 

Heroes  and  heroines  in  tragic  dramas  die  with 
an  expression  of  exhausted  vital  force,  a  sub- 
sidence of  nerve  and  muscle  action;  but  the  hero 
or  heroine  in  opera  dies  issuing  a  volume  of  voice 
that  always  indicates  a  control  of  nerve  and 
muscle  and  vital  force  that  might  live  on  for  years 
if  the  end  of  the  play  had  not  come  just  at  that 
moment. 

The  comic  opera  may  be  one,  two  or  three  acts, 
or  more,  but  its  outcome  is  always  farcical.  The 
object  is  entertainment  through  ridicule  and 
satire,  tickling  and  stinging  the  senses  through 
the  opening  and  persuasive  effect  of  music. 

The  operetta  is  a  little  opera.  It  may  be  seri- 
ous or  comic,  but  the  burletta,  which  may  be  one 
scene  or  more,  always  presents  the  farcical  pic- 
tures of  life,  with  music. 

All  dramas,  of  whatever  kind  or  species,  are 
written  to  be  acted,  and  the  men  and  women  who 
act  dramas  are  actors,  and  because  their  acting 

258 


IS  but  the  simulation  of  the  thought  or  emotion 
to  be  re-presented,  the  actors  are  called  "players/' 
and  the  dramas  they  play  in  are  called  "plays," 
hence  "plays"  and  "players." 

The  Latin  word  designating  actors  is  histrio, 
and  from  this  name  is  derived  that  word  so  com- 
monly in  use  in  describing  dramatic  art,  "histri- 
onic/'  a  word  more  popular  among  amateurs  and 
novices  than  among  professional  actors. 

A  word  that  has  come  very  much  into  use 
within  the  past  ten  years  to  describe  or  name  the 
results  of  the  dramatic  artists  is  "work;"  e.g.,  in 
speaking  of  an  actor's  performance  in  a  play,  the 
speaker  says  "I  like"  or  "I  dislike"  "his  work." 
We  need  not  necessarily  attribute  this  expression 
to  affectation  or  to  ignorance,  but  we  may  say 
that  it  is  a  bad  form  of  speech,  not  in  good  taste ; 
for  dramatic  art  is  a  special  result — the  outcome 
of  the  direct  application  of  the  mental  force  to 
the  machinery  of  the  human  body  in  re-present- 
ing the  creatures  of  dramatic  authors,  who  are 
in  themselves  a  special  class  among  the  littera- 
teurs of  the  world,  and  although  acting  is  work, 

259 


2FIj^  Art  0f  Arttng 

yet  because  it  is  a  special  kind  of  work,  it  should  be 
described  by  the  specific  term  which  through  long 
and  best  usage  has  obtained,  viz.,  "art."  "Work" 
is  a  general  term  and,  as  a  descriptive  term,  in- 
cludes acting.  But  why  have  specific  terms  if  we 
do  not  use  them  to  describe  special  things?  An 
actor  may  do  very  earnest  work  in  his  prepara- 
tion and  still  do  very  bad  art  in  his  acting.  Any 
sound,  able-bodied  man  may  work,  but  every 
sound,  able-bodied"  man  cannot  therefore  do  dra- 
matic art. 


260 


®I|0  iramattr  iir^rtor 


TJAINTING,  music,  poetry  and  sculpture,  as 
fine  arts,  may  be  executed  in  perfection  by 
the  artist  single-handed  and  alone;  but  dramatic 
art  in  its  greatest  perfection  requires  a  group  of 
artists,  working  together,  and  the  correct  result 
depends  entirely  on  their  harmonious  action. 
In  order  to  develop  the  intentions  of  the  author, 
the  group  of  artists  seeking  to  represent  the 
author's  dramatis  personae  must  rehearse  the 
memorized  words  for  the  purpose  of  discovering 
the  individual  action  of  the  several  characters  of 
the  play,  and  so  to  conjoin  those  actions  as  to 
preserve  the  unity  of  purpose  that  a  dramatic  au- 
thor must  have,  if  he  would  present  a  successful 
play. 

A  director  is  an  indispensable  necessity  to  a 
proper  rehearsal  of  a  play;  for  the  reason  that 
everv  earnest  and  ambitious  actor  will  always 

261 


SIj^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

strive  to  win  the  approbation  of  the  audience ;  and 
the  desire  to  win  approval,  unless  properly  direct- 
ed, may  and  often  does  destroy  the  intention  of 
the  author.  Good  plays  are  sometimes  destroyed 
and  frequently  marred  through  the  presentation 
of  the  actor's  own  individuality,  instead  of  the  in- 
dividuality of  the  author's  character.  The  fail- 
ure may  result  from  the  actor's  inability  to  con- 
ceive the  author's  motive,  or  through  lack  of  skill 
in  his  art,  or  again  the  failure  may  be  made 
through  the  egotism  that  constantly  presents  the 
actor's  own  personality,  instead  of  the  author's 
creature. 

The  actor  or  actress  playing  the  hero  or  hero- 
ine may  be  a  good  director,  but  it  does  not  follow 
that  either  of  them  is  so  necessarily,  because  act- 
ing the  principal  characters  in  the  play.  Certainly 
the  actor  playing  the  principal  character  should 
know  the  play  very  thoroughly,  but  even  this 
knowledge  does  not  in  itself  constitute  him  a  good 
director ;  for,  to  direct  properly,  he  must  not  only 
possess  the  knowledge,  but  he  must  be  able  to  im- 
part it  clearly  to  his  fellow  artists.    Then,  too,  the 

262 


strain  on  his  patience  is  frequently  greater  than 
he  can  successfully  bear,  while  engaged  in  re- 
hearsing his  own  part  in  the  play,  and  a  mani- 
festation of  impatience  is  quite  out  of  place  in 
rehearsing.  The  aim  of  a  director  should  be 
to  keep  the  mind  of  the  actor  open  to  receive  sug- 
gestions, and  impatience,  with  severe  and  sar- 
castic words,  closes  up  the  mind  of  the  actor  to 
whom  they  are  addressed  and,  for  the  time 
being,  quite  destroys  his  receptivity.  This  is  a 
bad  state  of  affairs  for  the  director  and  the  di- 
rected. 

Great  acting  requires  singleness  of  purpose. 
No  actor  can  be  great  if  he  act  and  direct  at  the 
same  time.  A  good  director  must  be  a  good 
actor.  He  should  be  a  man  of  good  scholarship 
in  the  language  of  his  author,  of  good  general  in- 
formation, an  authority  on  correct  pronunciation 
and  good  reading.  He  should  have  an  artistic 
desire  and  a  good  knowledge  of  form  and  the 
harmonies  of  color,  with  a  quick  eye  to  see  and 
ability  to  arrange  picturesque  groups.  His  per- 
ception should  be  quick,  his  knowledge  apt  and 

263 


®Ij^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

his  patience  everlasting.  A  want  of  courtesy  on 
the  part  of  a  director  is  not  only  a  manifestation 
of  gross  ignorance,  but  it  is  destructive  of  the 
very  intention  of  his  office.  Ignorant  people  gen- 
erally assume  a  dogmatic  and  domineering  man- 
ner, to  conceal  their  inability  to  answer  questions. 
The  office  of  Dramatic  Director  in  a  good  the- 
atre is  a  very  honorable  office,  and  worthy  of 
better  men  than  are  sometimes  selected  for  it.  It 
is  not  improbable  that  at  least  seven  in  every  ten 
of  the  failures  that  are  made  in  producing  plays, 
result  from  improper  direction,  inability  to  dis- 
cover the  author's  intention.  A  good  director 
should  be  able  to  eliminate  redundant  lines  that 
check  action,  to  make  the  verbal  connections  that 
may  preserve  the  harmony  of  action  and  to  make 
such  transposition  of  words,  lines,  or  even 
whole  scenes,  as  may  tend  to  perfect  the  situa- 
tions of  the  author  and  develop  his  climaxes  in 
their  full  value.  He  must  be  able  to  suggest  the 
proper  scenery  to  the  scenic  artist,  to  describe  the 
necessary  properties  to  the  property  man,  and  to 

264 


OIIi?  iramattr  'Bxrtttttv 

describe  the  correct  style  and  color  of  the  cos- 
tumes for  each  artist  in  the  play.  He  must  direct 
the  proper  lighting  and  darkening  of  the  play 
through  its  various  phases  of  day  and  night  to  be 
re-presented. 

It  is  a  duty  that  the  director  owes  to  himself 
and  those  whom  he  is  to  direct,  to  know  the  play 
thoroughly,  before  he  calls  the  company  together. 
If  a  director  would  have  and  retain  the  respect 
of  his  artists,  he  must  be  punctual  to  the  appoint- 
ed hour  of  rehearsal.  A  director  should  be  a  dis- 
ciplinarian ;  but  for  best  discipline  extreme  sever- 
ity is  not  necessary,  and  the  effort  to  control  the 
conduct  of  an  artist  outside  of  his  business  rela- 
tions, except  by  friendly  advice,  is  an  imperti- 
nence that  no  manly  artist  will  submit  to.  The 
director  who  attempts  it  may  be  justly  termed 
"a  martinet." 

The  man  who  would  be  a  disciplinarian  must 
first  discipline  himself.  A  want  of  ability  and 
lack  of  punctuality  on  the  part  of  the  director  are 
disturbing  elements  that  destroy  discipline  and 
demoralize  the  company. 

265 


Slf^  Art  0f  Artittg 

A  director  should  not  call  his  company  to  re- 
hearsal until  he  is  ready  to  begin;  and  having 
named  the  hour,  he  should  begin  exactly  at  the 
appointed  time.  After  the  dramatic  work  begins, 
nothing  should  engage  his  attention  until  the  re- 
hearsal is  terminated  for  the  day. 

To  avoid  the  distracting  interruptions  that 
fatigue  the  actor  and  demoralize  the  rehearsals, 
the  director  should  arrive  at  the  theatre  in  time 
to  have  an  interview  with  the  machinist,  scenic 
artist,  property  man  and  other  mechanical  and 
spectacular  assistants  before  his  appointed  hour 
for  rehearsal.  A  good  director  can  always  spend 
an  hour  with  these  subordinate  departments  be- 
fore the  rehearsal,  and,  by  this  course,  avoid 
much  mental  annoyance  and  bodily  fatigue  for 
both  himself  and  company. 

The  first  call  of  the  company  is  for  the  purpose 
of  assembling  all  who  are  engaged  and  thereby  to 
know  if  they  are  ready  to  begin  the  labors  of  the 
season.  This  call  should  be  made  at  least  one  day 
before  rehearsals  begin.  At  this  meeting,  the 
director  should  take  the  occasion  to  make  the  sev- 

266 


®Ij^  Sramaltr  IBxrtttttr 

eral  members  acquainted  by  personal  introduc- 
tions among  those  who  are  strange  to  each  other. 
At  the  meeting  of  the  company,  the  play,  if  new, 
should  be  read  by  the  author  or  by  the  di- 
rector, and  the  "parts"  distributed  for  study. 
At  a  first  rehearsal  of  each  act  in  a  new  play, 
the  members  of  the  company  should  read  their 
parts.  The  parts  should  be  read  to  save  the 
time  that  may  be  lost  when  the  actor  tries 
to  recite  a  half-memorized  character;  but  the 
sooner  the  actor  memorizes  his  part  the  better  it 
will  be  for  him  and  his  associates;  for,  when  the 
part  is  thoroughly  memorized,  the  actor  will  be 
able  to  express  in  action  the  individuality  of  the 
character  he  is  to  assume.  The  actor  cannot  do 
the  action  of  a  character  while  he  is  hunting 
through  memory  for  the  medium  of  conveyance. 
A  dramatic  company  should  be  made  up  of  men 
and  women  who  are  actors,  only  when  they  are 
on  the  stage.  Off  the  stage,  the  members  of  a 
dramatic  company  should  be  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. The  tendency  of  the  dramatic  art  is  toward 
refinement.    The  study  of  the  best  dramatic  au- 

267 


®Ijr  Art  nf  Arttttg 

thors  is  a  powerful  developer  in  the  philosophy  of 
life.  A  thorough  knowledge  of  Shakespeare, 
alone,  is  a  liberal  education.  Everything  in  the 
art  and  science  of  acting  strengthens  the  body 
and  beautifies  the  mind.  Dramatic  artists  are, 
therefore,  by  their  association  with  the  best  dra- 
matic authors,  prepared  to  present  a  high  stand- 
ard of  intelligence  in  their  daily  lives  and  to 
beautify  by  intelligent  development  the  works  of 
dramatic  authors  in  their  evening  labors. 

If  the  dramatic  director  owe  to  the  dramatic 
company  courtesy,  as  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman, 
and  the  earnest  fulness  of  his  knowledge,  with 
patience  to  meet  the  necessities  of  the  inquiring 
minds  around  him,  so  does  the  company,  individu- 
ally and  collectively,  owe  to  him  the  courteous 
conduct  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  their  earnest 
attention,  together  with  their  best  effort  at  all 
times,  to  do  his  direction ;  for  upon  the  success  of 
the  director  depends  the  preservation  of  the  uni- 
ties of  the  play.  When  the  unities  of  a  play  are 
destroyed,  the  author's  work  is  left  in  the  condi- 
tion of  several  "variety"  acts,  into  which  ignor- 

268 


©Ij^  iramattr  Sir^rtnr 

ance  of  the  original  intention,  or  the  over-ween- 
ing and  selfish  ambition  of  the  several  actors, 
has  thrown  it,  by  their  individual  efforts  for  per- 
sonal aggrandizement. 

A  rehearsal  of  a  play  means  a  time  of  study  for 
the  actors, — not  a  study  of  their  words  and  lines 
(those  may  be  studied  outside  of  rehearsal),  but 
a  study  of  the  situations  of  the  play,  so  that  each 
actor  may  know  the  true  value  of  the  words  he  is 
to  speak  and,  by  the  practice  of  doing  them  in 
connection  with  his  fellow  artists,  be  enabled  to 
present  them  in  their  full  dramatic  value. 

A  full  and  clear  reading  or  recitation  of  the 
words  of  a  part  should  be  given  by  the  actor  at  all 
rehearsals,  first  because  all  actors  need  such  prac- 
tice, and  to  read  and  recite  in  a  slovenly  or  care- 
less way  at  rehearsal  is  demoralizing  to  one's 
self;  and,  secondly,  because  those  who  are  to  re- 
spond should  know  the  full  intention  of  the 
speaker,  and  this  cannot  be  unless  a  full  illustra- 
tion is  given  at  rehearsals.  True  artists  and  those 
who  are  striving  to  be  artists,  always  rehearse  in 
full  as  soon  as  they  have  memorized  the  lines  in  a 

269 


Sij^  Art  ttf  Arltttg 

new  play.  In  an  old  play  it  is  a  duty  that  the 
actor  owes  to  the  author  and  to  the  public,  as  well 
as  to  his  fellow  artist,  so  to  speak  and  rehearse, 
even  his  most  familiar  character,  that  the  new- 
comer or  novice  in  the  play  may  be  able  to  com- 
prehend and  perform  the  "part"  or  "business" 
assigned  to  him.  By  a  proper  fulfillment  of  these 
conditions,  both  the  director  and  the  actors  may 
save  themselves  much  time  and  force,  and  avoid 
a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  ill  feeling.  Good 
actors  are  sensitive  people,  and  therefore  liable 
to  suffer  more  from  unpleasant  environments 
than  is  the  so-called  business  man,  a  part  of  whose 
business  is  to  bear  the  rebuffs  and  scorns  of  oppo- 
sition, that  arise  in  the  competitive  work  of  strug- 
gling to  get  from  his  fellow  man  everything  that 
he  possesses,  except  his  diseases.  Sensitiveness 
in  a  business  man  is  an  index  to  failure,  but  sensi- 
tiveness in  the  dramatic  artist  is  a  positive  merit. 
Actors  who  are  successful  grow  more  sensitive 
as  they  grow  older,  and  feel  so  keenly  the  loss  of 
applause  or  the  want  of  recognition  from  an  audi- 
ence, that  it  sometimes  begets  jealousy.     This 

270 


Sllf^  iramattr  Bxttttnv 

diseased  condition  is  generally  made  apparent  by 
an  effort  to  suppress  or  destroy  the  applause  due 
to  a  fellow  artist,  either  by  entering  on  the  scene 
and  speaking  too  quickly,  or  by  actually  cutting 
out  the  lines  and  situation  that  would  bring  the 
expression  of  approbation  to  his  assumed  rival. 
This  is  pitiful.  Jealousy  is  always  the  sign  of  a 
limit.  Great  minds  accept  rivalry  as  an  incentive 
to  greater  development.  Fair  rivalry  urges  one 
to  higher  achievements. 

The  distribution  of  the  characters  in  a  play 
is  a  matter  for  very  serious  consideration  with 
the  director,  for  he  must  not  only  know  the  inten- 
tion of  the  author,  but  he  must  also  know  the 
capacity  of  the  several  actors  in  his  company,  so 
as  to  assign  to  each  artist  the  "part*'  in  the  play 
for  which  he  is  best  adapted.  This  adaptation  of 
the  actor  to  the  "part"  alludes  only  to  his  mental 
fitness,  which  mental  fitness  is  the  result  of  an  in- 
herent quality  in  the  actor  or  a  cultivated  mental 
condition  enabling  him  quickly  to  perceive  and 
readily  to  present  by  tone,  pose  and  gesture  an 
author's  embodiment  of  sensations.    Because  the 

271 


SII?^  Art  0f  Artiug 

dramatic  author's  story  is  told  by  several  char- 
acters, male  and  female,  each  doing  a  part, 
while  preserving  the  unities  and  the  entirety  of 
the  play,  several  men  and  women  are  necessary 
to  the  proper  interpretation  of  the  work.  Every 
play  must  have  a  hero  or  a  heroine,  the  person 
in  the  story  in  whom  all  the  interest  centres 
and  around  whom  all  the  principal  incidents 
of  the  play  cluster.  Some  plays  have  a  hero 
and  a  heroine,  seemingly  of  equal  importance. 
These  two  characters,  in  a  well  constructed 
drama,  contain  the  interest  and,  in  the  progress 
of  the  plot  or  story,  occupy  all  the  great  dramatic 
situations,  climaxes  in  action  that  surprise, 
startle,  increase  interest  or  arouse  enthusiasm  in 
the  spectator.  All  subordinate  characters  must 
serve  to  develop  the  hero  or  heroine,  for  although 
the  actors  in  a  play  may  be  artists,  all  cannot 
be  central  figures,  nor  possess  equal  attractive- 
ness. It  sometimes  happens  that  a  young  and 
inexperienced  actor  will  endeavor  to  make  Hora- 
tio superior  to  Hamlet,  or  prince  Malcolm  super- 
ior to  Macduff ;  but  such  a  ranting  effort  is  an 

272 


absurdity,  and  only  begets  ridicule  for  the  ill- 
advised  aspirant.  The  sooner  an  aspirant  for 
dramatic  honors  learns  to  co-ordinate  his  muscle 
with  the  author's  thoughts,  and  to  subordinate  his 
personal  ambition  to  the  author's  situations, 
masking  his  egotism  behind  the  author's  crea- 
ture, the  sooner  will  the  discipline  fit  him  to  fill 
the  "leading  character,"  a  worthy  and  a  desir- 
able achievement  for  every  aspiring  artist;  and 
though  it  may  be  impossible  for  all  to  reach  the 
"leading  position,"  the  effort  will  enhance  their 
value  to  the  public  in  the  subordinate  positions. 

The  distribution  of  the  characters  in  a  play, 
among  the  members  of  an  organized  stock  com- 
pany, has  long  been  classified,  according  to  the  in- 
tellectual fitness  of  the  actors,  and  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  manager,  in  engaging  and  work- 
ing the  company,  into  "Lines  of  Business,"  as — 
Leading  man  and  leading  woman ;  juvenile  man 
and  juvenile  woman;  heavy,  first  and  second; 
first  and  second  comedian ;  first  and  second  come- 
dienne; old  man,  first  and  second;  old  woman; 
eccentric  characters;  first  and  second  walking 

273 


^\}t  Art  0f  Arttng 

gentleman;  responsible  utility;  general  utility; 
and  supernumeraries. 

To  fill  these  several  lines  of  business,  a  com- 
pany of  at  least  twenty  actors  is  required,  and  in 
some  of  Shakespeare's  plays  a  larger  number  is 
called  for.  The  "doubling"  is  scarcely  commen- 
surate with  the  dignity  of  a  first  class  theatre, 
and  its  obligations  to  a  cultivated  public.  A 
dramatic  artist  who  is  an  acknowledged  leader, 
whether  male  or  female,  has  earned  the  right  to 
have  a  choice  of  characters  when  the  dramatis 
personae  are  to  be  distributed  in  a  new  play.  The 
leading  man  and  the  leading  woman  are  bound 
to  accept  the  precedent  established  in  any  first- 
class  stock  theatre;  but  the  fitness  and  ability  of 
the  artist  to  assume  the  great  variety  of  dramatic 
characters  that  must  necessarily  fall  to  the  lot  of 
the  "leading"  artists  may  justly  be  a  question 
for  rational  discussion  and  amicable  adjustment 
between  the  director  and  the  "leading  man"  or 
"leading  woman,"  as  the  case  may  be. 

The  "leading  man"  and  the  "leading  woman," 
by  reason  of  the  favorable  dramatic  situations 

274 


SU}^  iramattr  Wxxtttsxt 

.that  they  are  nightly  assuming  in  the  plays,  gen- 
erally achieve  popularity  and  become  favorites 
with  the  audiences  or  patrons  of  the  theatre, 
making  it  desirable  on  the  part  of  the  manager 
to  keep  them  before  the  public  in  every  play  pro- 
duced. Every  artist  in  the  theatre  may  and  does 
have  a  following  advantageous  to  the  manager 
and  complimentary  to  themselves  according  to 
the  artistic  merit  displayed  by  them  in  their  sev- 
eral positions.  The  approbation  accorded  to  a 
man  or  woman  for  his  club  life,  or  for  her  social 
position,  does  not  necessarily  entitle  her  to  ap- 
proval as  a  dramatic  artist. 

A  little  reflection  will  convince  any  thinking 
artist  that  a  very  large  proportion  of  his  popular- 
ity is  due  to  the  author.  Shakespeare  has  lifted 
hundreds  of  actors  into  fame  and  a  position  in  the 
world  of  arts  and  letters  that  could  never  have 
been  achieved  by  them  if  thrown  on  their  own 
resources  for  a  medium  of  conveyance.  In  the 
distribution  of  heroic  characters,  a  director  would 
undoubtedly  be  impressed  with  the  idea  of  size; 
but,  upon  reference  to  his  historical  knowledge, 

275 


JBift  Art  nf  Arttttg 

he  learns  that  a  fair  proportion  of  the  world's 
heroes  and  heroines  have  been  only  an  average 
height  and  size.  Some  of  the  most  famous  dra- 
matic artists  have  been  men  and  women  of  small 
stature.  It  will  be  a  sad  day  for  dramatic  art 
when  mere  physical  conditions  shall  take  the  place 
of  mental  force,  when  muscle  and  adipose  matter 
shall  outweigh  brains,  and  elegant  costumes  shall 
mask  false  conceptions  and  bad  execution. 

A  perfect  knowledge  of  the  play,  and  a  thor- 
ough acquaintance  with  the  individual  ability  of 
each  member  of  the  company,  are  absolute  neces- 
sities on  the  part  of  the  director,  to  enable  him 
to  cast  a  play  with  justice  to  the  author,  credit  to 
the  actors,  and  satisfaction  to  the  public. 

The  following  cast  will  show  how  the  charac- 
ters in  a  play  were  distributed  to  accord  with  the 
positions  of  the  several  members  of  a  stock  com- 
pany, up  to  the  time  when  the  present  system  of 
combinations  obtained  a  place  in  the  theatre : 


276 


Ifrnttl^t,  Prints  ttf  Benmark 


Claudius, 

King  of   Denmark, 

1st  Heavy  Man. 

Hamlet, 

Son  to  the  late,  and 
nephew    to   the   pres- 
ent, king. 

1st  Leading  Man. 

Polonius, 

Lord   Chamberlain, 

1st  Old  Man. 

Laertes, 

Son  to   Polonius, 

1st  Juvenile  Man. 

Horatio, 

Friend  to  Hamlet, 

2d  Juvenile  Man. 

Guildenstern, 
Rosencrantz, 

Courtiers, 

1st    and    2d    Walking 
Gentlemen. 

Bernardo, 
Marcellus, 

Officers, 

Responsible  Utility. 

Priest, 

2nd  Old  Man. 

1st  and  2d 
Players 

1st  and  2nd 
"Character  Parts." 

Osric 

Eccentric  Comedy. 

1st  Grave  Digger, 

, 

1st   Comedy. 

2d  Grave  Digger, 

2nd  Comedy. 

Gertrude, 

Queen  of  Denmark, 

Heavy  Leading 
Woman 

Ophelia, 

daughter   to 
Polonius, 

Leading  Juvenile 
Woman. 

Player  Queen, 

2nd  Old  Woman. 

Courtiers,  male  and   female. 

General  Utility. 

Ghost  of  Hamlet's 

father, 

2nd  Leading  Man 

277 


Mnkt-TSip 


rx^  HIS  term  is  used  to  define  the  appearance  of 
•^  the  actor  in  whatever  character  he  assumes, 
and  not  only  alludes  to  his  costume  for  the  part, 
but  to  the  painting  of  the  face,  the  color  and  cut 
or  fashion  of  the  hair  and  beard.  The  success 
or  failure  in  the  presentation  of  the  mental  and 
emotional  phases  of  a  dramatic  character  may, 
and  often  does,  depend  upon  the  knowledge  and 
skill  of  the  actor  in  the  department  of  make-up. 

It  is  difficult  to  rid  one's  self  of  first  impres- 
sions in  nature,  and  first  impressions  from  the 
dramatis  personae  of  the  stage  are  quite  lasting. 
The  every-day  record  of  the  theatre  is  full  of  the 
proofs  of  first  impressions.  The  subject  may 
easily  be  opened  by  comparing  the  original  cast  of 
a  play  to  the  cast  of  a  reproduction.  All  who  have 

278 


seen  the  "originals,"  except  those  who  are  acting 
in  the  reproduction,  are  ready  to  tell  how  much 
better  the  play  was  done  when  they  first  saw  it. 
While  undoubtedly  some  of  the  superlative  praise 
must  be  credited  to  the  vanity  of  the  historian, 
who  ofttimes  expects  to  enhance  his  own  great- 
ness in  the  estimation  of  his  listeners  by  claiming 
to  have  seen  a  more  meritorious  performance 
than  the  course  of  events  has  permitted  them  to 
witness,  still  some  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the  re- 
lator may  be  justly  attributed  to  the  effect  of  first 
impression.  It  therefore  behooves  the  artist  to 
look  to  the  correctness  of  his  make-up  if  he  would 
secure  the  lasting  approval  of  his  audience. 

So  far  as  the  costuming  is  concerned,  the  artist 
of  to-day  may  obtain  at  any  of  the  public  libraries 
the  best  archaeological  authorities  for  reference; 
and  if  he  desire  to  be  entirely  successful  in  his 
make-up,  he  must  be  able  to  refer  to  authorities 
that  will  enable  him  to  present  the  special  effects 
of  the  costume  of  any  century  or  decade  of  a 
century. 

In  modern  dress,  a  first-class  tailor  for  gentle- 

279 


Slj?  Arl  0f  Arttttg 

men,  and  a  first-class  milliner  and  dressmaker 
for  ladies,  should  be  consulted  in  order  that  the 
costume  of  the  period  may  be  truthfully  pre- 
sented. Having  selected  a  costumer,  whether 
ancient  or  modern,  do  not  let  your  taste  or  fancy 
interfere  with  his  facts  of  history. 

I  remember  an  actor  who,  having  to  dress  a 
character  in  the  long-tailed  embroidered  coat  of 
the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  had  the 
tails  cut  off  to  the  same  length  as  the  skirts  of  his 
evening  dress  coat  of  i860,  because  the  latter  was 
more  in  harmony  with  his  taste.  This  certainly 
was  very  ridiculous,  but  not  more  ridiculous  than 
the  wearing  of  a  blue  necktie  with  an  evening 
dress.  I  saw  this  done  by  an  excellent  actor  in  a 
first-class  theatre  in  1876.  Had  the  artist  in 
either  case  taken  the  trouble  to  consult  a  proper 
costumer,  these  mistakes  could  have  been  avoided. 

In  presenting  a  play,  the  manager  has  the  right 
to  arrange  the  fashion  and  the  color  of  the  cos- 
tumes that  the  characters  shall  be  represented  in ; 
but  the  exercise  of  that  right  requires  that  he 
shall  furnish  the  costumes  at  his  own  expense. 

280 


There  is  neither  honesty  nor  the  semblance  of 
respectable  management  in  requiring  individual 
artists  to  buy  colors  to  suit  the  director's  group- 
ings on  the  stage;  and  the  form  and  color  of 
dramatic  grouping,  whether  in  ancient  or  modern 
costume,  are  productive  of  some  of  the  most  pleas- 
ing effects  in  a  play.  This  is  a  matter  worthy  of 
much  consideration  by  directors  and  managers. 

Great  attention  should  be  given  to  the  hair, 
not  alone  to  the  style  of  wearing  it,  but  to  the 
characteristic  color.  It  may  safely  be  set  down 
as  a  principle  with  which  to  govern  action  in  this 
matter,  that  dark  hair  is  more  in  keeping  with 
the  expression  of  serious  emotions,  while  light 
hair  seems  to  convey  with  first  impressions  the 
idea  of  a  bright  and  cheerful  disposition. 

There  is  no  reason  in  nature  why  a  person 
with  light  colored  hair  may  not  feel  just  as  seri- 
ous as  a  person  with  black  hair ;  but  we  know  that, 
on  all  serious  occasions,  custom  in  this  country 
has  made  dark  colors  in  costumes  the  medium  for 
expressing  serious  and  sad  situations.  The  col- 
ors of  dress  for  mourning  differ  according  to 

281 


®If?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

persons  and  countries.  In  Italy  the  women  once 
mourned  in  white  and  the  men  in  brown.  In 
China  they  wear  white ;  in  Turkey,  Syria,  Cappa- 
docia  and  Armenia,  celestial  blue;  in  Egypt  yel- 
low, or  the  color  of  a  dead  leaf.  The  Ethiopians 
wear  gray,  and  in  Europe  the  mourning  color  is 
black.  Each  of  these  colors  had  originally  its 
significance.  White  is  the  emblem  of  purity; 
celestial  blue  denotes  the  place  we  wish  to  go  to 
after  death ;  yellow  or  the  dead  leaf  indicates  that 
death  is  the  end  of  hope,  and  that  man  falls  as  the 
leaf;  gray  signifies  the  earth  to  which  the  dead 
return ;  and  black  indicates  the  absence  of  life,  or 
want  of  life.  Previously  to  the  reign  of  Charles 
VIII,  the  queens  of  France  wore  white  upon 
the  death  of  their  husbands,  and  were  called 
reines  blanches.  On  the  death  of  that  mon- 
arch the  color  was  changed  to  black.  Light  and 
bright  colors  are  used  to  express  mirth  and  glad- 
ness ;  so  that  it  may  be  assumed  that  the  first  im- 
pression made  by  the  character  as  to  the  serious 
or  comic  nature  of  its  situations  will  depend 
largely  upon  the  color  of  the  costume.    Of  course, 

282 


the  fashion  of  the  dress  and  the  style  of  the  hair 
must  be  governed  by  the  prevailing  mode  of  the 
period  represented,  unless  the  part  be  what  is 
denominated  a  ''character  part,"  which  means  a 
character  in  the  play  eccentric  to  the  accepted 
rules  of  etiquette  and  the  prevailing  forms  of 
fashion.  The  eccentric  vanity  of  a  foolish  man 
is  sometimes  shown  when,  as  an  actor,  he  appears 
on  the  stage  in  the  court  costume  and  bag  wig 
of  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  wear- 
ing the  moustache  and  side  whiskers  of  the  pres- 
ent day.     It  is  an  intolerable  absurdity. 

The  gas  light  in  the  theatre  neutralizes  the 
warm  colors  of  the  face  and  leaves  a  pallid  and 
unnatural  hue.  Artificial  coloring  must  therefore 
be  used  to  give  the  appearance  of  health  and  nat- 
uralness to  this  most  expressive  part  of  the  body; 
but,  with  many  actors  and  actresses,  excellent  art- 
ists in  other  respects,  there  seems  to  be  an  effort 
to  produce,  not  a  semblance  to  nature  in  this  re- 
spect, but  something,  the  likeness  of  which  does 
not  exist  in  nature. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  no  pure  white 

283 


®Ij0  Art  0f  Arttns 

masses  in  the  human  face  in  its  healthful  condi- 
tion ;  and  there  are  no  black  lines  in  the  shadows 
or  wrinkles  of  the  face.  And,  yet,  the  would-be 
artist  in  make-up  first  lays  on  a  heavy  wash 
of  pure  white,  and  then  rubs  on  an  unlim- 
ited quantity  of  red,  carrying  it  up  the  sides  of 
the  face  to  the  very  roots  of  the  hair,  and  cover- 
ing the  eyelids  until  the  face  presents  the  swollen 
and  inflamed  appearance  of  dissipation.  Then 
he  puts  a  heavy,  black  line  under  the  eyes  which 
means  nothing  but  dirt.  It  is  difficult  to  attrib- 
ute such  false  painting  to  anything  but  ignorance, 
through  lack  of  observation  of  nature's  coloring, 
which  can  be  seen  on  every  hand,  and  at  all  times ; 
but  if  there  be  any  difficulty  or  inconvenience  in 
studying  the  lines  and  colors  of  the  face  from 
nature,  there  are  in  all  of  the  large  cities,  and 
even  in  many  of  the  smaller  towns  of  our  coun- 
try, galleries  of  paintings  where  the  actor  may 
study  characteristic  expressions  of  the  face, 
either  in  youth  or  in  age,  made  solely  by  lines  and 
color,  the  work  of  painters  whose  study  is  to  copy 
nature  correctly. 

284 


One  can  scarcely  appreciate  the  expression  of 
intelligence  that  the  nose  gives  to  the  face  until 
he  has  seen  a  face  from  which  the  nose  has  been 
removed  by  disease  or  accident,  as  it  sometimes  is. 

A  small  nose  is  generally  the  sign  of  a  weak 
character,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  a  large  nose 
is  always  the  sign  of  a  strong  character. 

The  noses  of  the  dumb  animals  lie  flat  and  even 
with  the  surface,  as  in  the  face  of  the  horse,  the 
ox  and  the  dog;  but  when  one  examines  the  head 
of  the  chimpanzee  and  the  higher  order  of  the 
simian  race,  the  gorilla,  one  sees  the  nose  gradu- 
ally rising  out  of  the  face  until  it  reaches  an  im- 
portant elevation  in  the  Hottentot,  the  lowest  in- 
tellect in  the  negro  race  found  in  the  interior  of 
Africa. 

Between  the  flat,  broad  nose  of  the  negro  and 
the  elevated  oriental  nose,  which  seems  a  dis- 
tinguishing feature  of  the  brightest  intellects  of 
the  world,  there  is  a  great  variety  of  forms  and 
each  variety  apparently  marks  some  characteris- 
tic of  the  individual. 

The  nose  of  middle  elevation  with  large  bul- 

285 


®Ij?  Art  0f  Arttng 

bous  termination  quite  red  in  complexion,  with 
large  open  nostril,  indicates  the  high  liver  much 
given  to  dissipation.  The  straight  Greek  nose 
bespeaks  clear  intellect  and  love  of  art ;  while  the 
Roman  nose  tells  of  courage  and  strength.  The 
Oriental  nose,  with  its  extreme  elevation,  thin 
nostrils  and  hooked  point,  tells  of  acquisition  and 
love  of  money  for  the  sake  of  domination.  Any 
of  these  forms  crooked  or  twisted  from  direct 
lines  indicates  individual  eccentricities. 

A  little  attention  to  the  coloring  of  the  face 
through  the  instructions  to  be  obtained  from  any 
good  portrait  painter,  will  greatly  enhance  the 
value  of  an  actor's  performance.  A  lack  of 
proper  height  in  the  physique  of  the  artist  is  a 
defect  not  easily  overcome.  It  is  true  that  shoes 
may  be  so  constructed  as  to  raise  the  figure,  but 
great  care  should  be  exercised  in  building  up,  lest 
on  trying  to  improve  the  appearance  in  this  re- 
gard, awkwardness  of  movement  and  a  stilted 
walk  neutralize  the  effect  gained  by  the  elevation. 
There  can  be  no  grace  without  strength  in  the 
position,  and  beauty  in  the  line  of  action ;  and  the 

286 


high  heels,  to  which  the  artist  is  unaccustomed, 
are  sure  to  beget  clumsiness  in  movement,  and  a 
lack  of  firmness  in  pose. 

While  in  dramatic  art,  or  indeed  in  any  of  the 
fine  arts,  superior  intelligence  should  not  be  hand- 
icapped by  the  absence  or  presence  of  adipose 
matter  and  muscle,  still  it  behooves  the  dramatic 
artist  to  present  as  perfect  a  picture  of  the  char- 
acter, as  the  art  of  making-up  will  permit;  and 
for  this  purpose  symmetries  for  the  lower  limbs, 
padding  for  developing  the  shoulders,  and  such 
appliances  as  may  give  proper  form  to  his  nat- 
ural physique,  are  entirely  legitimate. 

Young  actors  who  aspire  to  do  the  "juveniles" 
or  lovers  in  dramatic  art,  will  find  it  greatly  to 
their  advantage,  in  personal  appearance,  to  keep 
up  their  gymnastic  exercises,  such  as  sword  play- 
ing and  dancing,  and  to  avoid  feasting  at  late 
suppers.  The  actor  must  be  willing  to  make  some 
sacrifices  if,  as  an  artist,  he  would  gain  and  hold 
the  approbation  of  the  public ;  for  while  the  actor 
is  feasting  with  "jolly  good  fellows,"  his  art  is 
fasting.     He  is  bartering  vital  force  and  public 

287 


®If?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

approbation  for  the  ephemeral  admiration  of 
those  whose  friendship,  in  many  instances,  is  be- 
gotten of  the  exhilaration  of  wine,  and  dies  with 
its  effervescing.  Such  friendship  lives  only  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  actor's  prosperity,  and,  with  the 
first  chilling  breath  of  adversity,  this  good-fel- 
low-friendship floats  off  on  its  butterfly  wings, 
and  leaves  the  actor  to  that  depression  which 
must  necessarily  follow  a  false  stimulation.  If 
one  desires  to  be  a  true  artist,  he  must  avoid  those 
methods  which  earn  for  the  actor  the  name  of 
''good  fellow." 

On  the  stage  let  your  make-up  and  your  eti- 
quette present  the  appearance  of  the  dramatic 
character  assumed.  Off  the  stage  let  your  cos- 
tume and  your  deportment  harmonize  with  the 
best  forms  of  the  society  in  which  you  live. 

Affected  eccentricity  in  dress  and  manners  is  a 
vulgarity  that  must  place  even  a  good  artist  at 
some  disadvantage  in  polite  society. 

On  the  stage,  affectations  and  assumptions  are 
art;  but,  off  the  stage,  let  the  simplicity  of  your 
manner  be  the  charm  of  your  individuality. 

288 


Ol0mpo0tti0it 


TTT^HEN  the  pupil  has  learned  to  analyze  the 
^  *  physical  effects  of  the  various  emotions, 
and,  consequently,  the  natural  language  through 
which  they  express  themselves,  let  him  then  take 
up  some  dramatic  author,  read  a  passage,  and, 
having  decided  what  emotion  it  is  intended  to  ex- 
press, let  him  interpret  the  author's  artificial  lan- 
guage by  the  aid  of  the  factors  of  natural  lan- 
guage which  he  may  have  acquired  through  his 
observations  of  nature,  and  which  he  has  ren- 
dered  subservient  to  his  will  by  his  analytical 
method  of  study  and  daily  physical  practice. 

The  artist  should  make  himself  as  familiar 
with  the  natural  language  of  all  emotions  of  the 
human  mind  as  he  is  with  the  alphabet  of  his  na- 
tive tongue. 

289 


QH}t  Art  0f  Arttttg 

In  order  to  apply  the  factors  of  expression  cor- 
rectly, it  follows  that  one  must  be  able  to  analyze 
for  the  true  meaning  of  the  dramatic  author's 
words,  phrases,  and  sentences.  Every  sentence 
in  a  purely  dramatic  composition  not  only  has  its 
grammatical  construction,  through  the  study  of 
which  one  arrives  at  the  author's  logical  conclu- 
sions, but  there  must  always  be  a  recognition  of  a 
sensation  underlying  the  very  words  or  signs  of 
sensation.  The  outcome  of  this  sensation  consti- 
tutes the  emotional  part  of  the  word  or  sentence. 

It  is  the  presentation  of  this  emotional  part, 
through  a  harmonious  blending  of  the  artificial 
with  the  natural  language  that  the  actor  must 
strive  for. 

How  shall  he  obtain  a  knowledge  of  the  emo- 
tional part  of  the  dramatic  character  ?  Here  be- 
gins the  severe  work  of  the  artist;  for  the  emo- 
tional nature  of  the  dramatic  character  cannot  be 
fully  known  until  the  artist  has  a  clear  conception 
of  the  psychology  or  mentality  of  character, 
which  conception  can  only  be  received  by  the  ar- 
tist, through  a  logical  deduction  made    by  an 

290 


analytical  study  of  the  grammatical  construction 
of  the  author's  sentence.  It  is  sometimes  as- 
serted by  those  who  believe  that  actors  "are 
born,  not  made"  that  some  of  the  clever  actors 
and  actresses  have  been  quite  ignorant  of  the 
curriculum  of  even  a  grammar  school.  Suppose 
the  statement  be  admitted  as  entirely  true,  it 
would  not  militate  against  the  statement  that 
these  undisciplined  actors  might  have  been 
greater  artists  if  they  had  been  better  scholars. 
The  history  of  the  dramatic  art  in  all  ages,  and  in 
all  countries,  shows  that  the  greatest  dramatic 
artists  have  been  scholarly  men  and  women.  I 
might,  in  proof  of  this  position,  cite  names  from 
the  histories  of  the  Greek,  Roman,  French,  Eng- 
lish and  American  theatres ;  but  this  work  is  not 
a  eulogy  on  dramatic  artists;  it  is  a  method  for 
studying  dramatic  art.  I  will  therefore  dismiss 
the  matter  by  saying  that,  other  things  being 
equal,  the  better  scholar  will  always  be  the  better 
artist. 

The  actor  must  comprehend  the  logic  of  the 
author's  sentences.    He  must  know  the  mentality 

291 


®If^  Art  nf  Arttng 

of  the  character ;  for,  if  he  do  not  know  the  men- 
taHty  of  the  character,  he  cannot  know  what  emo- 
tions are  to  be  portrayed. 

The  true  study  of  a  dramatic  character  lies  en- 
tirely within  the  dramatic  author's  text.  For  ex- 
ample, in  order  to  study  the  character  of  Richard 
III  in  Shakespeare's  play  of  that  name,  it  is  not  at 
all  incumbent  upon  the  artist  to  hunt  through 
English  history  to  learn  what  kind  of  a  man  the 
Duke  of  Gloster,  afterward  King  Richard  III, 
was ;  for  it  is  admitted  on  all  hands  that  no  writer 
has  ever  more  clearly  and  forcibly  expressed,  in 
language,  the  emotions  of  human  beings,  than 
has  this  universally  acknowledged  linguist  of  the 
emotions — Shakespeare.  And  it  is  also  admitted 
by  students  of  English  history  that  Shakespeare's 
Richard  III  is  not  the  Richard  III  of  English  his- 
tory. So,  when  an  actor  leaves  Shakespeare's 
text  to  hunt  through  history  for  the  historical 
personage  there  described,  he  becomes  an  author 
instead  of  an  actor,  whose  true  art  is  not  to  con- 
struct characters,  but  to  illustrate  characters  al- 
ready constructed  by  the  dramatist. 

292 


It  is  rather  a  pusillanimous  intelligence  that 
can  achieve  celebrity  only  by  stealing  the  frame- 
work of  great  or  even  popular  authors,  to  invest 
it  with  its  own  personal  peculiarities  for  repre- 
sentation. 

This  much  for  dramatic  pirates,  whether  they 
be  managers  or  actors. 

As  independence  is  one  of  the  attributes 
claimed  for  the  American  character,  I  trust 
American  actors  will  ever,  in  their  true  manli- 
ness, treat  with  contempt  the  author  or  actor  who 
lives  upon  the  stolen  capital  of  plagiarized  plays 
or  conceptions  of  characters.  Let  the  actor  study 
and  think  for  himself.  If  he  cannot  think  for  him- 
self, he  has  no  right  to  be  in  an  art  whose  aim  is 
to  illustrate  the  works  of  the  brightest  thinkers 
and  litterateurs  of  the  world. 

In  a  subsequent  volume,  now  in  preparation, — 
"The  Emotional  Analysis  of  Shakespeare's  Dra- 
matic Characters" — I  have  given  analytical 
studies  of  a  few  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  char- 
acters, in  order  to  show  the  student  how  we  may 
get  at  the  mentality  of  the  dramatis  personae,  and 

293 


®tji?  Art  0f  Arttttg 

so  become  acquainted  with  them  just  as  we  are 
acquainted  with  our  most  intimate  friends,  whose 
personal  pecuHarities  we  can  and  do  frequently 
imitate  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  it 
affords  to  the  listeners.  This  imitation  of  facts 
may  be  most  harmoniously  blended  with  fancy  in 
what  is  termed  idealizing  a  character  which  is 
really  nothing  more  than  presenting  the  character 
as  the  actor  thinks  it  should  be,  instead  of  present- 
ing it  as  a  positive  matter  of  fact,  deduced  from 
the  text  and  situation.  This  is  a  very  dangerous 
field  of  experiment ;  for,  to  be  successful,  the  actor 
must  possess  not  only  great  refinement  of  taste, 
but  delicate  skill,  to  diverge  from  the  author's 
verbal  descriptions. 

And  here  is  where  imagination  may,  nay  must, 
come  to  the  actor's  assistance.  Imagination  is 
that  part  of  our  mental  action  which,  while  it 
grows  out  of  the  truthful  observation  of  realities, 
refuses  to  be  limited  by  logical  conclusions,  and 
reaches  into  infinite  space  for  expansion.  Wonder, 
not  always  an  agreeable  sensation,  may  be  the 
outcome  of  great  eccentricity  in  this  factor  in 

294 


mental  picture  making;  but  true  pleasure,  satis- 
faction, repose  for  mentality,  will  result  only 
when  the  works  of  imagination  bear  so  strong  a 
resemblance  to  nature  that  the  mind  immediately 
recognizes  a  standard  for  comparison  in  its  parts, 
or  as  a  whole. 

As  theory  is  the  forerunner  of  practice,  so  is 
imagination  the  originator  of  theory.  The  dra- 
matic art  may  be  idealized  by  this  power ;  but  the 
imagination  of  the  actor  must  be  so  versatile  and 
supple  as  to  be  always  a  truthful  elaboration  of 
the  author's  work  in  any  given  direction. 

If  versatility  or  suppleness  of  imagination  be 
wanting,  the  actor  will  not  only  pervert  the 
author,  but  he  will  fall  into  the  habit  of  re-pre- 
senting his  own  individuality,  and  so  produce  that 
quality  in  his  art  called  "sameness." 

Because  the  artist  sometimes  gives  scope  to  his 
imagination  and  thereby  seems  to  enhance  the 
value  of  the  author's  work,  some  people  are  in- 
clined to  think  that  actors  create  characters ;  but 
the  art  of  acting  is  not  creative.  The  author  ar- 
ranges emotions  and  the  actor  illustrates  them. 

295 


®if^  Art  0f  Arttttg 

The  actor,  through  his  science,  studies  the  emo- 
tions that  the  author  has  described,  and  by  his  art 
he  represents  them. 

Perfection  is  not  claimed  for  the  present  work, 
in  any  department ;  but,  if  the  author's  effort  shall 
set  actors  to  thinking  that  they  really  have  an  art, 
then  there  will  be  a  chance  for  a  more  perfect  de- 
velopment of  the  science  of  emotions,  because 
study  will  follow. 

Finis. 


This  book  was  set  up.  printed  and 
BOUND  BY  The  Nyvall  Print,  of 
NO.     1876    Broadway.     New     York. 


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I»0V 

my 

9  mz 
10  im 

^Ocf'4pyy, 
2kn.'55lti 

DEC 

9  1932 

A^'TO.  DISC. 

DEC 

8  1936 

NOV  18  1988 

ClPCllt  Ann 


M 


JUN  29  1940 
OCT  7  194011 

OCT  28  mA\  k 


LD  'Jl-50m-8,-33 


U.C. 


BfBKELEYL/BBABJES 


coot  ?4g  575  "'* 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


